
So much for my big announcement that I’d write poetry every day this month.
I feel like I’ve been broken open and put back together in a new way – one that is very similar to what I was before, but different all the same. Remember The Wizard of Oz? The section that was always my very favorite part of the book when I was a kid was one that never made it into the movie – it’s the story of the land of the “china dolls,” with a princess who was so afraid of falling and breaking herself and marring her prettiness that she never did anything at all, and a clown who had been broken so many times and glued back together that his body was a maze of lines and cracks. And because of his brokenness and healing he was stronger than the princess could even imagine being. I think I’ve become that clown, just a little bit. I’ve had one big break, something that was at the same time the most painful but also the most beautiful and sacred thing I’ve ever experienced. And I don’t know what to do with that yet. I’m chewing on it constantly, but I can’t put any of it into pretty (or even not so pretty) words and post them as poems for other people to see. Maybe not ever, but at the very least not yet. But I can’t write (or hardly think) about anything else either. So for now, no poetry. Prose is all I can manage, and even that is hard.
A week ago I could still say that at thirty I still had all four of my grandparents.
My grandmother died exactly one week ago as I write this. One week ago we were losing her. In half an hour it will be one week since my grandfather asked us what time she died and we realized that none of us had been watching the clock so we weren’t sure exactly when – we just knew it had been a little while before. It’s been a week since I held her hand and kept my other hand on her shoulder as a circle of nine members of our family laid hands on her and told her that it was ok and that we loved her and then stayed with her as she left us. A week since I held her head and helped the hospice nurse dress her in a nice nightgown so she wouldn’t be taken to the funeral home in the old t-shirt she died in. A week since I sat with her in the bedroom as other family members moved in and out and waited for the people to come and take her body away, my hand on her arm keeping at least a small part of her warm for just a little longer, until I had to let go and leave the room so they could take her. A week since I watched my grandfather say goodbye to her, over and over again, every time we thought that this time was THE time, then as she was leaving, then after she died, then before the funeral home folks took her away, then as we went into the room for the viewing for the first time, and again and again as he moved toward her amidst the sea of visitors to see her just one more time, and then finally the morning of the funeral as our family said goodbye to her one last time before her casket was closed for good.
But a week ago I also watched our family grow closer and stronger than it has ever been. It’s been a week since I watched my grandfather begin to open up in a way that I’d never seen, openly showing emotion, hugging us back when we hugged him, telling stories about his childhood and life as a young man, smiling when we came in the room. This may be the first time in my life that I’ve felt that I have an actual relationship with my grandfather. It’s astounding and so, so beautiful to see. I’ve seen so many members of my family be real and genuine with one another in a way that I haven’t experienced before. Most of it I can’t figure out how to put into words, but I can say that this new closeness is a gift that my grandmother gave us. It feels good, even as it feels bad. You know?
This is new for me. It’s not new for most people, but it is for me. For now it stays inside where I can turn it over and over in my head, where I can replay it and think about what it means. For now I don’t try to make it sound nice or have a consistent rhythm or voice. It’s still too real for that. So no poetry yet.
