what i can remember
is the fullness of presence
in my mother’s voice
caught in the unreality of a phone call
so subtly enunciating the words
describing
the flying away of my father
the man
who first dragged me into this world
lost me in the process of his own becoming
and then thrust me forcefully
into the mire and glory
of all that he knew and had subsumed
into his becoming self
later, our trajectories
separated sufficiently
that we could see each other
through the fog of our histories
so clearly
that respect
and an acknowledgement of all that had passed
and all that might be
entered into the hugs
we bracketed our meetings with
perhaps most painful
and most daunting -
were my mother’s words
(and later her eyes)
full of the empty wonder and ripe sorrow
of the loss of all that she had known
all that she had worked for and with
despite and against
-
my mother and my father -
so very like the most unlikely dance partners
seeing each other across a crowded dance-floor
and drawing together to bring concordance
to the music of two orchestras
and in the worlds i had collected to that point . . .
well, with his flying away
a world ended
in the slow dying
of the knowing of him
contained in my own children
whose lives lost all at once
an open doorway
and a containment
in my father’s flying away
13 comments:
A lovely descriptive piece Steven/ Losing our parents is always sad - i lost both of mine in the same year many years ago - but it is inevitable - part of life's rich pattern, as they say. You have written a fine tribute.
Perhaps a world ended, but if you are like me, other worlds began. The photographs are incredibly potent with your fine tribute, Steven.
weaver your words are - as always - entirely true and clear. thankyou. steven
ruth - i know that what you write here is true in my own experiencing. other worlds have opened up . . . oh yes they have!!! thankyou. steven
I haven't lost a parent yet.... can't imagine it yet and, of course, dread it. I know that other worlds open up, then.
wow. not.one.thing.static.here. and not one thing is but we so often mistake things to be.
i LOVE that you recognize the process of his becoming. here is the essential point around which we can all understand and accept one another, and unfortunately, perhaps the point around which your mother can not understand your father and his choices. but sometimes it is difficult to get through to a rightful philosophy when we live in these, our ever present egos. i understand this too. i am so often restrained.
xo
erin
So richly moving, so bittersweet.
Steven, this is so very moving and has a tragic beauty. It is painful to conjure up the past and the ensuing emotions, but you have done so and in the process have drawn us in to share in your innermost thoughts; this is true poetry.
May your healing be complete and your soul filled with tranquility as time and thought work within you.
Getting used to death (flying away) is sobering. It's so for keeps! No more real conversations on the phone or across the table. They really are GONE! DANG!
Good that you got to really know your father in such a deep true sense before he became no more. Very lucky.
wonderful tribute steven, you managed to see each other as men as well as father and son and you each knew it..you are blessed..xx
That first photo says so much: like two men standing side by side, content with each other's company even when they might not have had the words.
Your kids are lucky...and your words make me miss my Dad, who left this earth too soon.
We have sat on that bench before, haven't we? And each time I find myself choked up with a silence full of gratitude and admiration for the beauty of this tribute.
yes lorenzo - that bench holds significance for my dad and i. the words are different each year. distance from his physical presence has a powerful effect on my perceptions. i wish i knew what he came back as and why . . . as a buddhist he believed in reincarnation of course . . . . steven
Post a Comment