This poem’s theme isn’t one that people like to talk about. It’s taboo for most. Right. It’s not PC of me to bring up another Brothering poem in this season; or maybe it is. Something about the holiday season, especially Christmas, when the stereotype of family and friends around hearth and tree, often makes us melancholy, or at least wistful. Some people experience worse: truly mournful memories and deeply felt absences, especially if the loss of a loved one is recent. For those for whom grief remains fresh, a pattern – layers—of that grief can wash over one in shifting tones. That’s what this poem is about.
Please accept this work as a tribute to those who suffer absences during what we insist is the happiest time of the year. And let us be watchful for such sufferers and do our best to help them survive the heartache while facilitating the enduring joy.
The Times You Died
The first time you died, we burned you
The second time you died, I saw you walking down a street
The third time you died, you peered out from a movie screen
The fourth time you died, you surfaced from a sea of dreams
The fifth time you died, your absence glared huge as doubt
The sixth time you died, your brilliant body blinded me
The seventh time you died, you disappeared behind a closing door
and were no more
Background
If you haven’t read the poems from Brothering - here, and here - my collection of works dedicated to my deceased brother, this poem may bring a shock. If you want to go back and read some of the other poems from the collection, let me know and I’ll direct you to the post dates.
A few days ago, Joe and I watched a movie titled Lion. It was excellent in many ways. See it if you can; it’s available from Netflix on disc. No, I’m not going to review the movie; however, I want to tell you about what happened as we were watching the film. For the purposes of this post, the plot, settings, and character profiles aren’t so important to me, although they are all compelling. The reason I bring up the movie is because the main character looked nearly identical to my deceased brother who died in July 2010. Experiencing the resemblance was heart-wrenching, and I remembered for the one-hundredth time how much I missed Paul. For the last third of the movie, my tears modestly trickled down my cheeks in an understated fashion; however, when the credits started to roll, my memories of him, the grief over his loss, and the shock of the resemblance to the actor combined to throw me into full-blown sobbing. That lasted for about fifteen minutes which is a long time to sob.
Now, the pain and sadness have subsided, but the experience remains fresh. I am publishing this poem now because in this season that virtually demands happiness, I want to acknowledge and honor those whose experience has more than a tinge of sorrow.
Exploration #1: If you are one of the large percentage of people who feel grief over the loss of a loved one during the end-of-year holidays, do you feel comfortable talking about the heartache? If not, is it because talking about the dead during the season is taboo? Something else?
Exploration #2: Whether you have lost a loved one, please consider what the conflicting elements and feelings might be in honoring the ones who have died with our tears, especially during “the season to be jolly.”
Exploration #3: Have you ever been taken by surprise when some person, place, or thing brings up memories of someone you love who has died?
If you haven’t read the poems from Brothering - here, and here - my collection of works dedicated to my deceased brother, this poem may bring a shock. If you want to go back and read some of the other poems from the collection, let me know and I’ll direct you to the post dates.
A few days ago, Joe and I watched a movie titled Lion. It was excellent in many ways. See it if you can; it’s available from Netflix on disc. No, I’m not going to review the movie; however, I want to tell you about what happened as we were watching the film. For the purposes of this post, the plot, settings, and character profiles aren’t so important to me, although they are all compelling. The reason I bring up the movie is because the main character looked nearly identical to my deceased brother who died in July 2010. Experiencing the resemblance was heart-wrenching, and I remembered for the one-hundredth time how much I missed Paul. For the last third of the movie, my tears modestly trickled down my cheeks in an understated fashion; however, when the credits started to roll, my memories of him, the grief over his loss, and the shock of the resemblance to the actor combined to throw me into full-blown sobbing. That lasted for about fifteen minutes which is a long time to sob.
Now, the pain and sadness have subsided, but the experience remains fresh. I am publishing this poem now because in this season that virtually demands happiness, I want to acknowledge and honor those whose experience has more than a tinge of sorrow.
Exploration #1: If you are one of the large percentage of people who feel grief over the loss of a loved one during the end-of-year holidays, do you feel comfortable talking about the heartache? If not, is it because talking about the dead during the season is taboo? Something else?
Exploration #2: Whether you have lost a loved one, please consider what the conflicting elements and feelings might be in honoring the ones who have died with our tears, especially during “the season to be jolly.”
Exploration #3: Have you ever been taken by surprise when some person, place, or thing brings up memories of someone you love who has died?
I recently purchased something, quite large, that as soon as I saw it I had a mental picture of my late sister Ginger, with her body bent slightly forward, eyes wide, eyebrows arched, guffawing with her hand over her mouth. I knew she would have loved it!
ReplyDeleteGinger loved humorous things, even if there was a dark side to it, sharing with us ShoeBox Greeting cards that had zany characters or humorous expression in them.
I remember her telling me Shut-Up jokes too. Two of my favorites were:
“Mommy, is Daddy really dead?”
Mommy: “Shut-up and keep digging.”
And,
“But Mommy, I keep going around in circles.”
Mommy: “Shut-up or I’ll nail your other foot to the floor.”
After Ginger and Jim had moved to their new house on Lawnview Drive, (in Des Moines) they found an Italian restaurant in Highland Park named, “Chuck’s Pizza.” Every weekend I spent with them as a boy, we’d have Chuck’s Pizza, a zesty salad, Pepsi Cola from a glass bottle with ice cubes in a glass, then later popcorn and watch Perry Mason on a black and white TV.
It was cool to stay at Ginger’s house. None of my friends had a ‘den’ in their house--who did? And nobody had a real drinking fountain by the back door either. The only drawback to staying at Ginger’s house was that they stayed in bed until 9:30 on weekends. I learned how to stay quiet and occupied myself until they got up by looking at engineering texts and art magazines. Not real entertaining, mind you. However, staying at Ginger’s elevated my reading skills level as well as gave me an edge in Scrabble against my peers.
Ginger played golf in the summertime and bowled in the wintertime for many years. I know she was sad not to be able to play golf as she once had. It was a big part of her life.
I do not so much mourn her death as celebrate her life. Ginger, among others in my life who have 'walked on', live on in my imagination and memories every day.
Thank you for joying me in paying tribute to a remembered loved one. I may try my hand at creating a poem out of your prose. Yes, it's the life celebration that supports us in cultivating the joy of the life that has left us.
DeleteThis poem does an excellent job reflecting the multitudinous facets of slow-tumbling grief.
ReplyDeleteGrief is the diamond that's still a lump of coal. There, your poem inspired a squib.
Thanks WW for your memories of Ginger. She was one of my favorite people.
Thank you for taking time to reflect on this poem. It is far more concise than my usual work; that's probably a good thing. The Squib is a great one. Your term, "slow-tumbling grief" creates a terrific emotional landscape. Wish I had thought of it for the poem.
DeleteLove your poem and tribute to your brother. Yes, I have been startled by moments that trigger grief and continue to be, first surprised, then grateful for the emotion because it reminds me that I still care even after the person is gone.
ReplyDeleteI have different ideas about Christmas and the presumed pressure to be jolly. If anything, it implores us to take stock of what we have (gratitude) and to consider those with less. (Why else is the request to give at its highest?) I would say that Christmas is a call for compassion - and in my Catholic tradition - that is the essence of the celebration in Christ's birth. A new beginning, a new call for compassion. A new way to live. Be born with hope and begin again. Not forgotten or displaced, but remembered and embraced. Peace to you and ALL your loved ones. - K
Thanks, Kim, for taking the time to read the post. And much gratitude coming your way for articulating your wonderful traditions.
DeleteMay all beings be happy.
May all beings be at peace.
May all beings be safe.