So many have also lived.
I ponder here at my Father’s burial place.
It is a strange thing but I think he would be proud of me.
If he could see me, I think he would be proud.
That was always important to me.
I wonder sometimes if I see him more than he was.
I don’t think so.
I saw him when he stood among the giants.
I also saw him as a mere man.
I only prefer to dwell on his pride, not his failures.
He sometimes had vision without drive.
He was sometimes paralyzed by a sense of inadequacy and hopelessness.
But he was a good man—good to me; good for me.
By grace I can step over the faults that are part of his legacy.
Step over and build on what remains.
Cold to the bone.
The trough of green at Baker Park
was white on that frozen day
In the winter of ’55 or ’56.
Sliding like lightning down the slope.
Wishing like thunder it was summer.
Remembering is when thoughts drift together into,
And most important of all…How?
How did it happen?
I’ve searched the net to find out where this little poem came from. I know it’s not original with me. It came, if I recall, from a long-play recording of poetry by Carl Sandburg, although I don’t believe it is his. I think, rather, it was attributed to his mother — still, I wouldn’t bet on it. I wouldn’t bet on the accuracy of my recollection of it, either. So, call it a paraphrase of a poem that I once heard and committed to imperfect memory.
I think of it now because my sister’s life is evaporating before our eyes like a puddle in the sun.
We keep a sober vigil, waiting for Maxeen’s inevitable transport from this world to the next. And in the waiting, I sit with my sister and remember the ‘who,’ the ‘what,’ the ‘where’ and ‘when’ of her life and mine. We remember the all important ‘how’ it happened.
Passing the time with photographs of people and places that we both remember, I realize that it is not just one person that is dying, it is a community. Those people and places known to no one but she and I will soon be known only by me. They will be treasured in only one heart, and eventually, the remembering will cease. Who? What? When? Where? How? Will swirl away like fallen leaves.
In Kewanee, our home town, on the street where I spent my first seven years and Maxeen her first 17, autumn was a mystical time. I remember it as a kind of festival. The men would rake leaves that drifted from the brooding maples that lined McKinley Avenue. The children would push them into long ridges — imaginary walls of make-believe houses in which unfolded pretend lives — until a grown-up, with his rake, would pull the leaves over the curb into the street and set them afire. The smoke would rise silently and touch the branches where the leaves had grown and lived, and then, like a fragrant memory, drift skyward and be gone.
[Photo taken from http://edweathers.blogspot.com]
She is the quiet one,
Wrapped in a magic world of spring and summer;
Of drifting leaves, golden and damp;
Of winter nights after snowfall.
Sitting on a stump she is framed
In the green of the forest maple,
Singing a summer song that my heart remembers.
She is peaceful.
Gliding softly over mirrored images,
Her voice is like the gurgling of the water beneath the boat.
We talk of the mountain
of the maker
of the woodsmoke hanging motionless over the darkening waters
of the first stars of evening,
and the distant sounds of laughter around the fires.
She is like them.
Elbow deep in Autumn
The classroom clock sags toward 3:02
Beyond the bookshelves through window glass
August bicycles catch the glint of September sun.
One leans heavy on its kickstand
Handlebar shoulders slouch toward the street
James Dean captured in spokes and steel
A bell sounds
Let freedom ring!
Children burst against double doors
“Visitors report to office.”
Writ backward on wired windows
Settling closed on Friday.
The August girl rides home
Flying toward Saturday
Summer at her back
Wind in her hair
Two wheels singing
Rare November sun
Rays, like memory
Burst through dusty windows
Warm in the musty garage
Finding the old bike
Rusty in the dark.