Skip to main content

A Letter From a Friend Who’s Dead

A Letter From a Friend Who’s Dead

The other day I got a letter from a friend who’s dead.
She wrote it first, of course, to tell me things she wanted said
about our friendship, all the fun we’d had, the talks
about things near our hearts, things happy and things sad.

And now I’m thinking how so many dearest friends are gone:
the Judy who died years ago, my nearly-sister Gayle,
Patricia, Mrs. Faulk, Mary Ann and Sally, Bernie
and the Judy I received the letter from….

Then it occurs to me how all the people
at the breakfast table of my childhood left and left and left
and left, and I alone am here, recalling dimly
or with unexpected clarity those ancient times.

But then I think how life has multiplied the friends,
the family—never to replace the ones now gone, of course,
but filling in some empty spaces, holes left gaping when they went.

How many more will go before I join the great collection
on the other side? I cannot know, of course, and there’s no point
in going to this place of pre-nostalgia for the ones I love.

I kiss you all goodbye—but first, hello. I want
to open wide my eyes to all your precious selves
while we’re still here so that before I go, I too, as Judy did,
may have the luxury of telling you some things
I hope that you’ll already know.

6/29/19


For all my friends and family on the other side. May the circle be unbroken bye and bye. But not today!
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

The Visit

The Visit Beached in his lean-back chair   He sits reclin ed and staring into what   I cannot reach .   An introvert at soul , h e comes alive    W hen younger spirits enter , sit   A ttendant after banter in the circle   Discovering their own lives inside   His gift of weaving wings from spiderwebs     Memories of dialogs gone by   Characters like sibling stars   Intermingling until   A laugh erupts and bubbles from the belly up   U ntil it catches fire a round the circle   Fills and lifts o ff high    Into eternal elements.         Inspired by Mary Lou Kowalski's little book of poems and commentary entitled Old Monk, this is the first (and only, so far) in my hoped-for collection: Old Married.    
Post a Comment
Read more

Resurrection Clothes

Lord, what were you wearing when you rose? What were your Resurrection clothes? A gardener’s rough attire? A traveler’s robe? The burial cloth aside (no longer suitable attire for one not dead). Aside, the strip of cloth that wound about your head. What did your Father give you then? What Resurrection garb was fitting for a Savior to be clothed in to walk among the not-yet-dead and not-yet-risen? You looked like us, I think. No one could tell the difference at first, but when you spoke, or broke the bread or walked through solid doors or roasted fish or let a loved one thrust his hand into your side— ah, then we saw and said, “My Lord, my God!” What are to be my Resurrection clothes? if I’m to play a part in this event, to share the rising that you’ve done? I’ll look like everyone, won’t I? My graveclothes gone, emerging from my tomb, I’ll walk, enrobed in you, among the not-yet throng. Will tend the garden, break the...
2 comments
Read more

Limericks for My Mama

Limericks for my Mama on her birthday, 1/4/2021 There once was a mommy of one who wanted her child to have fun, so she taught her to rhyme-- the result was sublime except for the times it was dumb. She’d married a much older man. Having kids wasn’t part of the plan, but one night they felt frisky  and did something risky and that was how Carol began.  When Carol was in a recital  (for dancing was something so vital) proud Mama would preen like a smiling machine and award her the superstar title. When Carol to college was headed  no chauffeur was what Mama dreaded,  so she bought a new car  but she didn’t drive far. The instructor screamed, “Let’s just forget it!   Now she looks down from Heaven at me and thinks, “How can it possibly be that my little girl child has grown up and grown wild and has gone on a limerick spree?” Now you see that I’m really no poet. I’m a fraud, and believe me I know it! But you gotta admit that at least I’m half-wit. (Oh ple...
1 comment
Read more