even if I now saw you
only once,
I would long for you
through worlds,
worlds.
-- haiku, izumi shikibu
things right now feel almost impossible.
Showing posts with label grief. Show all posts
Showing posts with label grief. Show all posts
September 1, 2011
september
Tonight there must be people who are getting what they want.
I let my oars fall into the water.
Good for them. Good for them, getting what they want.
The night is so still that I forget to breathe.
The dark air is getting colder. Birds are leaving.
Tonight there are people getting just what they need.
The air is so still that it seems to stop my heart.
I remember you in a black and white photograph
taken this time of some years. You were leaning against
a half-shed tree, standing in the leaves the tree had lost.
When I finally exhale it takes forever to be over.
Tonight, there are people who are so happy,
that they have forgotten to worry about tomorrow.
Somewhere, people have entirely forgotten about tomorrow.
My hand trails in the water.
I should not have dropped those oars. Such a soft wind.
-- jennifer michael hecht
I let my oars fall into the water.
Good for them. Good for them, getting what they want.
The night is so still that I forget to breathe.
The dark air is getting colder. Birds are leaving.
Tonight there are people getting just what they need.
The air is so still that it seems to stop my heart.
I remember you in a black and white photograph
taken this time of some years. You were leaning against
a half-shed tree, standing in the leaves the tree had lost.
When I finally exhale it takes forever to be over.
Tonight, there are people who are so happy,
that they have forgotten to worry about tomorrow.
Somewhere, people have entirely forgotten about tomorrow.
My hand trails in the water.
I should not have dropped those oars. Such a soft wind.
-- jennifer michael hecht
July 29, 2010
july 29
By Small and Small: Midnight to Four A.M.
For eleven years I have regretted it,
regretted that I did not do what
I wanted to do as I sat there those
four hours watching her die. I wanted
to crawl in among the machinery
and hold her in my arms, knowing
the elementary, leftover bit of her
mind would dimly recognize it was me
carrying her to where she was going.
-- Jack Gilbert
today, my stepfather would have been 45. though we have learned how to get on without him, we miss him in ways large or small every day, each of us in our own separate fashion. me? I think of him every time I play softball, and feel especially proud when I win the weekly game ball (our MVP prize) -- which I did last week. I don't really believe in heaven, but on days when I have a good game, I hope that he can see me somehow, and know that I am thinking of all the summer afternoons spent playing catch in the front yard.
happy birthday, steve. we miss you.
For eleven years I have regretted it,
regretted that I did not do what
I wanted to do as I sat there those
four hours watching her die. I wanted
to crawl in among the machinery
and hold her in my arms, knowing
the elementary, leftover bit of her
mind would dimly recognize it was me
carrying her to where she was going.
-- Jack Gilbert
today, my stepfather would have been 45. though we have learned how to get on without him, we miss him in ways large or small every day, each of us in our own separate fashion. me? I think of him every time I play softball, and feel especially proud when I win the weekly game ball (our MVP prize) -- which I did last week. I don't really believe in heaven, but on days when I have a good game, I hope that he can see me somehow, and know that I am thinking of all the summer afternoons spent playing catch in the front yard.
happy birthday, steve. we miss you.
February 11, 2010
Tuesday: grief
I want to tell you about my uncle, Barry, who died last Thursday, four days after my half brother's suicide. My uncle had a stroke in the middle of the night, was flown to the hospital, but was proclaimed in too poor health to survive an operation, and was pulled from life support by early afternoon. Two of my aunts (including his wife), two uncles, and my mother were present when he died, 30 minutes after the respirator was removed.
He was 65. When I was a child he helped me learn how to play the piano by ear; he often accompanied me when I competed on my clarinet in solo & ensemble festivals. He was a cantor at several synagogues, taught voice at two local community colleges, and had a double degree from Peabody. As a child I used to love to sleep over their house, where before settling in to watch movies, we'd gather around the piano and sing. He used to say I had a "sweet voice."
His funeral, Tuesday morning, was attended primarily by family; it was small and quiet. The rabbi, who was unacquainted with my uncle, nevertheless gave a nice speech about him. My aunt and cousin held up admirably, given the circumstances. Afterwards, my entire family went to a reception, but I left them to head up to the MD/DE border, to attend the funeral of my half-brother.
I should mention that the day of my uncle's death, there was a real danger that both funerals would be scheduled simultaneously. I had a minor breakdown in that moment, and swore to my mother that if it came to pass, I would not come home. How could I choose?
It was so good to see my sister, who pulled all the arrangements together for her brother almost single-handedly, because her parents were too distraught to take any action. She was so beautiful and composed. I had spent days thinking of how I wished I could help somehow. 3000 miles is very, very far sometimes.
Before I tell you about the rest of this day, I have to take a minute to explain things to you, because I never have. My sister, Dayna, and my brother Jason, along with my two middle siblings Caitlin and Christian, are my father's other children. There are five of us; I am the oldest by 3 years.
I have never met my father.
In fact, I had not met any of them, nor did I know of their existence, until 2006 when, on the prompting of my grandparents, Dayna searched for and found me on the internet. I met my grandparents for the first time that summer, along with my sister. A year later, I met my sister's husband and son, my brother Jason and his wife, my father's sister and brother and their respective spouses, and my young cousin Hope, whose eyes were exactly the same shade of blue as mine. Slowly but surely over the years I have met most of the members of my father's side of the family, with the exception of my father himself and my other two siblings, who are high-school aged and who, Dayna believed, did not know of my existence.
One day I'll tell you about how all of this has felt -- what mix of gratitude and terror, of hope and guilt; the strange reality of the prodigal child -- but for now I want to tell you how I sat in the back of the funeral home, surrounded by nearly all of my paternal family, and held my grandmother's hand as we wept at the death of my brother.
The service was very difficult. The minister was Jason's best friend's father, and as he started to speak, his voice was audibly breaking. He talked at length, and then allowed people to take the stand; Jason's stepfather spoke, and my sister, and his grandmothers; a friend of his from high school, and his commanding officer in the Marines. It was hard to hear about this boy I never knew, with his giant bottle glasses and sweet personality; hard to know what I inadvertently missed.
Jason was given military honors: three rounds of rifle fire, the presentation of the flag to his mother, and the playing of Taps outside the building. I can't verbalize what that familiar, mournful trumpet call did to me. it was the most excruciating part of the service, and yet I was grateful for it.
Afterwards I stuck by Dayna until I had to leave because of imminent snow. I would have liked to stay. A few strangers came up to talk to me; one relative of Jason's stepfather told me that he'd spotted me from across the room. "I'd know you anywhere," he said. "You look just like him." A small gift, these few words, on a hard day.
He was 65. When I was a child he helped me learn how to play the piano by ear; he often accompanied me when I competed on my clarinet in solo & ensemble festivals. He was a cantor at several synagogues, taught voice at two local community colleges, and had a double degree from Peabody. As a child I used to love to sleep over their house, where before settling in to watch movies, we'd gather around the piano and sing. He used to say I had a "sweet voice."
His funeral, Tuesday morning, was attended primarily by family; it was small and quiet. The rabbi, who was unacquainted with my uncle, nevertheless gave a nice speech about him. My aunt and cousin held up admirably, given the circumstances. Afterwards, my entire family went to a reception, but I left them to head up to the MD/DE border, to attend the funeral of my half-brother.
I should mention that the day of my uncle's death, there was a real danger that both funerals would be scheduled simultaneously. I had a minor breakdown in that moment, and swore to my mother that if it came to pass, I would not come home. How could I choose?
It was so good to see my sister, who pulled all the arrangements together for her brother almost single-handedly, because her parents were too distraught to take any action. She was so beautiful and composed. I had spent days thinking of how I wished I could help somehow. 3000 miles is very, very far sometimes.
Before I tell you about the rest of this day, I have to take a minute to explain things to you, because I never have. My sister, Dayna, and my brother Jason, along with my two middle siblings Caitlin and Christian, are my father's other children. There are five of us; I am the oldest by 3 years.
I have never met my father.
In fact, I had not met any of them, nor did I know of their existence, until 2006 when, on the prompting of my grandparents, Dayna searched for and found me on the internet. I met my grandparents for the first time that summer, along with my sister. A year later, I met my sister's husband and son, my brother Jason and his wife, my father's sister and brother and their respective spouses, and my young cousin Hope, whose eyes were exactly the same shade of blue as mine. Slowly but surely over the years I have met most of the members of my father's side of the family, with the exception of my father himself and my other two siblings, who are high-school aged and who, Dayna believed, did not know of my existence.
One day I'll tell you about how all of this has felt -- what mix of gratitude and terror, of hope and guilt; the strange reality of the prodigal child -- but for now I want to tell you how I sat in the back of the funeral home, surrounded by nearly all of my paternal family, and held my grandmother's hand as we wept at the death of my brother.
The service was very difficult. The minister was Jason's best friend's father, and as he started to speak, his voice was audibly breaking. He talked at length, and then allowed people to take the stand; Jason's stepfather spoke, and my sister, and his grandmothers; a friend of his from high school, and his commanding officer in the Marines. It was hard to hear about this boy I never knew, with his giant bottle glasses and sweet personality; hard to know what I inadvertently missed.
Jason was given military honors: three rounds of rifle fire, the presentation of the flag to his mother, and the playing of Taps outside the building. I can't verbalize what that familiar, mournful trumpet call did to me. it was the most excruciating part of the service, and yet I was grateful for it.
Afterwards I stuck by Dayna until I had to leave because of imminent snow. I would have liked to stay. A few strangers came up to talk to me; one relative of Jason's stepfather told me that he'd spotted me from across the room. "I'd know you anywhere," he said. "You look just like him." A small gift, these few words, on a hard day.
February 10, 2010
grounded.
one day soon I'll tell you about yesterday, and two funerals, and how hard it was. it was hard. it was one of the longer, harder days of my life.
but first, I'll tell you about today:
Blizzard Warning
URGENT - WINTER WEATHER MESSAGE
NATIONAL WEATHER SERVICE BALTIMORE MD/WASHINGTON DC
103 PM EST WED FEB 10 2010
MDZ003>007-009>011-013-014-110000-
/O.CON.KLWX.BZ.W.0002.000000T0000Z-100211T0000Z/
WASHINGTON-FREDERICK MD-CARROLL-NORTHERN BALTIMORE-HARFORD-
MONTGOMERY-HOWARD-SOUTHERN BALTIMORE-PRINCE GEORGES-ANNE ARUNDEL-
INCLUDING THE CITIES OF...HAGERSTOWN...FREDERICK...WESTMINSTER...
GAITHERSBURG...COLUMBIA...BALTIMORE...ANNAPOLIS
103 PM EST WED FEB 10 2010
...BLIZZARD WARNING REMAINS IN EFFECT UNTIL 7 PM EST THIS EVENING...
A BLIZZARD WARNING REMAINS IN EFFECT UNTIL 7 PM EST THIS EVENING.
* PRECIPITATION TYPE...SNOW AND BLOWING SNOW.
* ACCUMULATIONS...12 TO 24 INCHES. DRIFTS OF 3 TO 5 FT POSSIBLE.
* TIMING...SNOW WILL CONTINUE THROUGH THE AFTERNOON. GUSTY WINDS
WILL CONTINUE INTO THIS EVENING.
* TEMPERATURES...MID AND UPPER 20S.
* WINDS...25 TO 35 MPH WITH GUSTS AROUND 55 MPH. BLOWING AND
DRIFTING SNOW WILL REDUCE VISIBILITIES TO A QUARTER MILE OR
LESS AT TIMES... PRODUCING BLIZZARD CONDITIONS.
PRECAUTIONARY/PREPAREDNESS ACTIONS...
A BLIZZARD WARNING MEANS SEVERE WINTER WEATHER CONDITIONS ARE
OCCURRING. DO NOT VENTURE OUTSIDE. THIS IS A LIFE THREATENING
SITUATION FOR ANYONE WHO BECOMES STRANDED.
FALLING AND BLOWING SNOW WITH STRONG WINDS WILL CREATE WHITEOUT
CONDITIONS...MAKING TRAVEL EXTREMELY DANGEROUS. DO NOT TRAVEL. IF
YOU MUST TRAVEL...HAVE A WINTER SURVIVAL KIT WITH YOU. IF YOU GET
STRANDED...STAY WITH YOUR VEHICLE.
I was supposed to be on my way back to Portland by now, but instead, I'm sitting in my mother's kitchen, watching as it continues to snow. The snow is waist high; some drifts in the yard are taller than I am. I truly have no idea when I'm going to get back. An earlier phone call today to Continental produced a very short message. "We are unable to answer the phone at this time. Please try again later."
On the other hand, Max, our labrador retriever, loves it.
but first, I'll tell you about today:
Blizzard Warning
URGENT - WINTER WEATHER MESSAGE
NATIONAL WEATHER SERVICE BALTIMORE MD/WASHINGTON DC
103 PM EST WED FEB 10 2010
MDZ003>007-009>011-013-014-110000-
/O.CON.KLWX.BZ.W.0002.000000T0000Z-100211T0000Z/
WASHINGTON-FREDERICK MD-CARROLL-NORTHERN BALTIMORE-HARFORD-
MONTGOMERY-HOWARD-SOUTHERN BALTIMORE-PRINCE GEORGES-ANNE ARUNDEL-
INCLUDING THE CITIES OF...HAGERSTOWN...FREDERICK...WESTMINSTER...
GAITHERSBURG...COLUMBIA...BALTIMORE...ANNAPOLIS
103 PM EST WED FEB 10 2010
...BLIZZARD WARNING REMAINS IN EFFECT UNTIL 7 PM EST THIS EVENING...
A BLIZZARD WARNING REMAINS IN EFFECT UNTIL 7 PM EST THIS EVENING.
* PRECIPITATION TYPE...SNOW AND BLOWING SNOW.
* ACCUMULATIONS...12 TO 24 INCHES. DRIFTS OF 3 TO 5 FT POSSIBLE.
* TIMING...SNOW WILL CONTINUE THROUGH THE AFTERNOON. GUSTY WINDS
WILL CONTINUE INTO THIS EVENING.
* TEMPERATURES...MID AND UPPER 20S.
* WINDS...25 TO 35 MPH WITH GUSTS AROUND 55 MPH. BLOWING AND
DRIFTING SNOW WILL REDUCE VISIBILITIES TO A QUARTER MILE OR
LESS AT TIMES... PRODUCING BLIZZARD CONDITIONS.
PRECAUTIONARY/PREPAREDNESS ACTIONS...
A BLIZZARD WARNING MEANS SEVERE WINTER WEATHER CONDITIONS ARE
OCCURRING. DO NOT VENTURE OUTSIDE. THIS IS A LIFE THREATENING
SITUATION FOR ANYONE WHO BECOMES STRANDED.
FALLING AND BLOWING SNOW WITH STRONG WINDS WILL CREATE WHITEOUT
CONDITIONS...MAKING TRAVEL EXTREMELY DANGEROUS. DO NOT TRAVEL. IF
YOU MUST TRAVEL...HAVE A WINTER SURVIVAL KIT WITH YOU. IF YOU GET
STRANDED...STAY WITH YOUR VEHICLE.
I was supposed to be on my way back to Portland by now, but instead, I'm sitting in my mother's kitchen, watching as it continues to snow. The snow is waist high; some drifts in the yard are taller than I am. I truly have no idea when I'm going to get back. An earlier phone call today to Continental produced a very short message. "We are unable to answer the phone at this time. Please try again later."
On the other hand, Max, our labrador retriever, loves it.
February 1, 2010
I was going to tell you that as I was driving home from the barn yesterday, an entire flock of geese crossed the road in a single file; how slowly they plodded, oblivious to waiting cars. I wanted to tell you it was a magical moment, tiny, a gift from the universe.
but instead I have to tell you that today, my half-brother Jason killed himself.
I hardly knew him. we met only once, at a family barbecue in 2007. my family story is a giant tangled knot, lengthy to unravel. I don't have the energy to tell it to you now. let me just tell you how I am thinking of my sister dayna; I am thinking of her mother; I am thinking of how I barely knew him, and will never know him, and how he must have suffered, and how we are suffering. And how my feeling of loss, though nothing compared with theirs, is tinged with the guilt and sorrow of being a stranger despite being family. my family. did you know that as a child, I always wanted a brother? he was only a few years younger than me. back then, I didn't even know he existed.
my brother. I hope you found some peace.
but instead I have to tell you that today, my half-brother Jason killed himself.
I hardly knew him. we met only once, at a family barbecue in 2007. my family story is a giant tangled knot, lengthy to unravel. I don't have the energy to tell it to you now. let me just tell you how I am thinking of my sister dayna; I am thinking of her mother; I am thinking of how I barely knew him, and will never know him, and how he must have suffered, and how we are suffering. And how my feeling of loss, though nothing compared with theirs, is tinged with the guilt and sorrow of being a stranger despite being family. my family. did you know that as a child, I always wanted a brother? he was only a few years younger than me. back then, I didn't even know he existed.
my brother. I hope you found some peace.
October 8, 2009
four years
may god bless my people: my uncle, my aunt, my mother, my good father. oh, remember them kindly in their time of trouble, and in the hour of their taking away.
-- james agee
four years ago today my stepdad, steve, died of glioblastoma multiforme, the most aggressive form of brain cancer. he was 40 years old. there's a lot I could tell you about the 9 months between diagnosis and death, but what I want you to know is this: he taught me how to catch a pop fly, how to parallel park, how to drive a stick shift. he bought me my first ten-speed, my first TV, my first car. he came to a zillion track meets and cross-country races. he taught me how to pitch. he sized up my boyfriends. he made me milkshakes in the summertime, and steak subs, and hot dogs. he let me win arm wrestling contests and tickled me till my stomach ached from laughing.
I was his stepdaughter, not his daughter, but he was always, always there for me. he attended every single recital I gave in college. my last graduate recital was scheduled at the end of february; he had emergency surgery february 15. from his hospital bed, he promised me he'd be there. "it's not important," I said, and it wasn't. but he shook his head emphatically. two weeks later, walking with a cane, he was there.
I am so thankful for every moment that I knew him, and I miss him.
-- james agee
four years ago today my stepdad, steve, died of glioblastoma multiforme, the most aggressive form of brain cancer. he was 40 years old. there's a lot I could tell you about the 9 months between diagnosis and death, but what I want you to know is this: he taught me how to catch a pop fly, how to parallel park, how to drive a stick shift. he bought me my first ten-speed, my first TV, my first car. he came to a zillion track meets and cross-country races. he taught me how to pitch. he sized up my boyfriends. he made me milkshakes in the summertime, and steak subs, and hot dogs. he let me win arm wrestling contests and tickled me till my stomach ached from laughing.
I was his stepdaughter, not his daughter, but he was always, always there for me. he attended every single recital I gave in college. my last graduate recital was scheduled at the end of february; he had emergency surgery february 15. from his hospital bed, he promised me he'd be there. "it's not important," I said, and it wasn't. but he shook his head emphatically. two weeks later, walking with a cane, he was there.
I am so thankful for every moment that I knew him, and I miss him.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)