A New Poem

the chill was
heralded by mercury
but surprised as
if a sudden dart
had pierced comfort

My Mother's Day

It is a beautiful spring day here -- the temperature is mildly warm, the sky seasoned with clouds. Trees are lushly leafed and, though the dogwood blossoms have passed their season, other wildflowers please the eye and the scent of glass freshly mown by the buzzing engines is sweetly evocative, even as my eyes itch and my nose tickles.



This day was quite different three years ago. Our modest home was then attended by an abundance of souls -- most particularly striking because of the souls attendant there who shall not be again.

It had been a stormy five days since my mother came home to her strange bed in our living room. Nothing but illness could have kept my mother in this house during such storms as those that raged the last days of her life. Yet we never entertained, or at least never expressed, any thought of seeking shelter even as the lightning surprised with immediate thunderous announcement, and though the wind blew fiercely against our vulnerability.




On this day three years prior my sister swears my mother emerged briefly from her coma to laugh at our parade of hat modelling.

It could have been then that she opened her eyes and I saw that the faded edge that whitened her iris in life like a three quarter moon had eclipsed her brown eyes completely.



Let me consider again the rare bucolic beauty of this day, this particular 6th of May. How pleasant it is to sit in the sun.

My mother loved to lie in the sun. She started in March, lathering herself with oils to promote the dark skin tone she craved. Having a tan was so central to her identity, as was immaculate dress and presentation -- but I wonder if part of her did not in some way revel in the sun just as I do. Have I been too quick to see my mother as vain and superficial, discounting whatever hidden spiritual depth she suffered?

If it were true that my mother possessed a kinder side -- a selfless side -- I think it would dismay me even more that my mother died with me still wondering how she really felt about me.




copyright 2005

Mister Death

Joan Didion quotes ee cummings' "Buffalo Bill's" in "The Year of Magical Thinking",

"how do you like your blueeyed boy
Mister Death"

Didion's book scalds recent grief and gives a voice to dormant grief.

Everyone seems to be reading Didion's book, and they should.

It seems that I've been reading a lot of books about grief lately. I recommend Alison Smith's "Name All the Animals," the story of her brother's death as a teenager.

I will never know the grief of losing a spouse or a child. I think I planned it that way.

Buy these books. There will come a time when you will want to read them, for comfort or cauterization.

Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves

I have been fascinated by Gypsy culture since reading Jack Olsen's "Hastened to the Grave." I was, therefore, very eager to read Isabel Fonseca's book, "Bury Me Standing: The Gypsies and Their Journey."

I am halfway through the book now and I still have no real understanding of the racism against Gypsies. Are they liars? It seems, yes. Are they con artists? Some of them. Do they, then, deserve the calumny heaped upon them? Olsen has painted a shameful portrait of them -- is it a true one?

I would appreciate any recommendations about published works about Gypsies in the United States and England. I've read "King of the Gypsies." Thanks.

Full moon in daylight

It's hard to even see the moon in this picture, taken December 16 around 7:40 a.m. You'll have to trust me -- it was lovely.


copyright 2005