Bittersweet
October
Against bittersweet October fields
shrouded purple and gold in memoriam for you,
you who will always remain eighteen,
the
hitchhikers waited scorning funeral black
for jagged
jeans and jaunty gypsy skirt.
Backpacks,
guitars and exuberant youth
on
their way to a concert of the Grateful Dead.
Are the
dead ever grateful? Are you?
You who
were born too late
and
died so young,
would
have enjoyed these relics
of the
searching, seething sixties
as did
I who was born too soon.
The
hitchhikers and I talked of relevance
and the
meaning of life,
but on
the meaning of death
they
were silent.
We
parted ways
they to
continue on in the sixties,
and I
to return to the present
and
duty,
and
responsibility,
and my
aching need of you.
(1984)
Tomorrow,
October 3rd, it will be thirty-four years since I held my eighteen
year old son John in my arms as he died from cancer. I was able to give him the
last gift of dying at home. I wrote about this event two years ago, Oct. 5,
2012 and told the story of my son and what kind of boy he was. If you want to
read his story, it’s in the archives.
As
I wrote then, his death had me seeking for something that would make it all
meaningful, if such a thing existed. I went to college, became a teacher, and
taught third grade for twenty very rewarding years. Teaching third graders was
mostly delightful, and yes, stressful at times, but it made me feel I was doing
something positive, and it awakened the child in me so it was a lot of fun, too.
But
something else came out of the tragedy of losing my son, John, and that was
writing. In college I had to write research papers, essays, and even wrote a
short story that won an award, and found I enjoyed writing. In fact, I went on
to get a masters in English, not to further my career as an elementary teacher,
but because I missed the reading and writing research papers. But what I wrote
for healing was poetry. I wrote an essay “Saying Goodbye” about that
last day, and I wrote and am still writing poetry for my son. Every year I put
a new poem in the newspaper on the day he left us.
The
college papers and the poetry was a start of my writing career, but it didn’t
end with poetry. Eventually I started writing mysteries; books and short
stories. I’ve always tended to tackle things with enthusiasm. For years I
painted and loved doing it. Then there was teaching – a great challenge both
creatively and sometimes tedious with grading papers or meetings. Is there
anything more boring than meetings? Playground duty? Not so bad except when
it’s quite cold and solving the spats. Lunchroom duty? Awful! The noise level
and trying to keep kids eating and not talking and fooling around was a pain. “Drink
your milk! At least eat a few bites of the vegetables.”
Today
I’m a mystery writer and gradually attaining a modicum of success at it. Will I
ever be on any best seller list? No! But that doesn’t matter as much as having
people read and enjoy my books, and even more it’s using my creativity to plot,
create characters and write a satisfactory book or story. I can’t imagine not
writing and I’m very content and happy with my life path. Would I have followed
this path if John hadn’t died? Maybe I would have, but who knows. I live with
what ifs. I’m planning to put together a book of essays and poetry I’ve written
since John died. I know poetry doesn’t sell well unless you’re someone like
Billy Collins, but the money doesn’t matter as much as hoping it will help
people out there on their path through healing.
What
if?
What
if you had lived longer?
What
if you hadn’t died when you did?
What
if you were still with us?
Where
would you be living now?
What
career would you now have?
Would
you be married with kids?
But
you didn’t live past eighteen
so
I’ve only memories
now
and what ifs.
(2014)
What
events have changed your life?
What
“what ifs” do you have?
