23 September Brother Behind the Curtain

Some months after a death, some people may recapture a sense of humor, even about the lost one. This takes the form of remembering funny incidents, grand faux pas, and jokes loved by the deceased. In some cultures (think Irish Wake), death is cause for a party. Well, maybe not exactly a party, but rather a chance to reminisce about the deceased with some, ahem, spirits and laughter. 

I was married to a police officer for sixteen years, and that profession, too, had its own brand of humor when facing death and dire doings. Their humorous manifestations can be crude and tasteless, but no matter the tone, the expressions almost always have the impact of staving off the grim aftereffects of the dying, the maimed, and those driven crazy by too much exposure to the darker side of our species.

Somewhere along the timeline after my brother’s demise, I experienced a light at the end of the tunnel of grief, and I began to remember all the happy times full of joy and laughter. That’s where this poem found its genesis, many months after his funeral. Maybe I was fooling myself, but the gentler approach eased me into his absence.

Brother Behind the Curtain

            

I had a brother once, but he is lost

I went hunting for him through ice and frost

yet whether I hunt him out, far or near

he’s always just beyond, out there, not here

One odd day I stood near his coffin lid

Inside, they said he was, but carefully hid

How this was wrong I dared not speak aloud

I just mimicked prayers with my head low bowed

The Land of OZ’s witches rose where they’d always been

Soon the man behind the curtain shuffled in

Maybe that’s where my brother is, I hoped

behind a curtain shielded by sparks and smoke

My courage reared up; my heart and brain awoke

What if I just gave that lidded screen a poke?

Maybe then I’d find him all smiles, alive

What if Oz and this death were both contrived?

Could my brother hide behind magic screens?

I know from encounters, all’s not what it seems

I raised up my nerve; I tamped down my brain

If I looked or not, nothing would be the same.

To everyone’s censure, I looked in and lied

“Look! He’s breathing! All pink and alive!”

Some fainted, one farted, a few ran away

I didn’t care. I was having my way

Propping the lid, I confessed I’d lied

I swear Paul looked up, smiled, winking one eye

Background:

As youngsters, Paul and I were enthralled by The Wizard of Oz. We watched it together whenever we could. DVDs had yet to be invented, so we had to wait for a television station to broadcast this favorite. In our early days, we knew others viewed us as Munchkins; however, when we played, he would always take the role of the white witch, and I, naturally, the place of the dark and surly black witch. These choices said a lot about our relationship, and our basic characters. Paul was, indeed, the purer soul, always there when a friend needed him, kind to our parents, and other-oriented to a fault. Now, I’m not saying that I was a bad girl. Rather, I kept a wary weather eye on humans, and mostly only trusted my dad and the natural world. Neither of us identified with Dorothy, her ruby shoes, or the canine referred to in the remark, “you and your little dog, too.” 

Exploration 1:

Some people would say that it’s inappropriate to have a sense of humor about death and funerals. What do you think? Perhaps, it isn’t so much a sense of humor as it is a mechanism to get through the inevitable grief?

Exploration 2:

Examine your preferences for your own funeral, and how you would like others to feel and behave.

Exploration 3:

Have you seen/experienced The Wizard of Oz? Does the metaphor fit this poem?