YOUR QUESTIONS
by Shelly Wagner
I'll tell you;
I'll be bold.
You cannot know what this is like
I don't want you to know
firsthand. But do not dare surmise
or worse, pass judgment —
you'll hear a different poem from me.
Not the poem that tries
with constricted throat
to speak the unspeakable,
recapture in foolish, shallow syllables
the trauma of loss
so you might
know for a moment
grief that gives life,
transcends,
blesses with wisdom.
It's my choice to share these lessons.
It's your choice not to listen
if you cannot bear
what I also thought
I could not survive.
I will understand
and wait
until you need this lesson
like a lifeline
when you are drowning.
You will die, too, you know.
There's nothing I can do about it
but have you drown in my poem
for only a moment,
then come gulping to the surface
looking into my eyes
smiling because you are not dead
but happier than you were before
to shake the water off your head,
go home and kiss your children,
tuck them in bed,
sleep yourself unsettled
but wake somehow refreshed.
So I keep telling my story,
what I know to be true.
I am different.
I felt it right away.
I wanted to die to be
with Andrew.
Others knew;
some forced themselves to touch me
as though my flesh had fallen away,
leaving my skull
to remind everyone of death.
It has taken me years
to recognize my face in the mirror,
to know who I am,
but I tell you
my face shines like Moses' face
and I refuse to hide it anymore,
cover it with makeup
or put on a smile
to make it easier for you.
Do not avoid my eyes.
Do not walk away from me.
I am a mother.
Come close, sit down, and listen.
We'll begin with your questions.
Ask me, for example,
why you never received a thank-you note
for flowers, food
or charity contributions
because I need to tell you.
After the funeral, I threw away
the funeral home's inadequate
thank-you notes given to me in a box.
I intended to write all of you,
but years went by,
and I never thanked you
for salvation in flowers,
nourishment of fried chicken,
poetry in "Given in memory of…."
One day I hope to see
the Jerusalem pine a friend planted in Israel,
Andrew's oak pew in a new chapel by the beach,
a music room full of children singing
where his memorial plaque proclaims:
"Make a joyful noise."
When my knees buckled,
I fell backward
onto your gifts like pillows
and like a person convalescing
propped them around me.
Now that I am better I can
write a long note to say thank you
and I love you
and I'm sorry it all happened.
For words of comfort even now,
you might say and some did say,
"You still have another son."
Now I ask you,
"Do you hear your own logic?
When your mother died
did your living father make it easier?"
What saved you, you ask?
Unconditional love.
I was lucky with Andrew.
We were happy.
Nothing was left undone.
Our last moments together were filled
with laughter. Pushing him in his tire swing
by the river
he was curled inside the circle
like a baby in the womb,
giggling
because he knew at random
I would catch him,
hold him close to my heart,
unwilling to let go,
and cover his face with kisses.
Fill your relationships
with all the photos in your mind
until they are so good
you will be afraid of losing them, and you will.
But that will not kill you,
you'll survive and live on.
It's regret that destroys you,
anything left undone.
You see I tell you
what you already know.
Don't shake your head
and dismiss this because it is simple.
Let's pretend you have climbed
a dangerous mountain,
reached the summit to see
the wise old woman who lives on the peak.
Your bruised knuckles knock on her door.
It opens. She's standing there —
you can't believe it —
wearing shorts,
her hair pulled back in a rubber band.
You've come all this way,
it's not what you expected
and worse yet
she goes to her desk,
gives you a paper,
one of hundreds, all typed,
"Live each day as though it were your last."
You see our problem,
you already have this at home
in a needlework picture.
Because it is nothing new
you may turn away,
but I won't worry about you.
You are a climber,
an asker of questions
with answers
cross-stitched on your walls at home,
hung in old frames on a nail,
hiding a flaw in the plaster.
I'll ask the next question for you
because you may not think to wonder,
"Is there anything you would have done differently?"
Yes, I'd bring his body home,
put his blue casket in my living room,
group all the flowers around him.
Imagine all the flowers.
Think of two more days
for me to look at my child,
discover the bruise
on his forehead that wasn't there
when we were playing.
I learned of his injury
weeks later
when a funeral director told me,
"He was so beautiful.
We did nothing but cover the blow."
For two more days
I could have spoken to my child face to face
before forced to speak
only to darkness or you.
There were not enough chances
to touch him,
put my cheek next to his.
I wouldn't have been afraid
of my child's body;
but I left him at the funeral home
in the corner room
on the second floor
and visited whenever I could
because I did not want to scare you.
Next time will be different.
I'll put my loved one in the house
like my mother's family used to do,
and we'll all gather around
like sitting by a fire.
At the cemetery, like a rabbi
I'll take the shovel
and heap the dirt back in the hole,
do the raking and sodding myself.
Let me tell you.
You would not know how to ask
about the day they set his tombstone.
I watched them stand the small granite cross
in a footing of wet cement.
When the workers left,
I touched the stone
carved with his name in full
because that's the way he said it,
written in all capitals
because that's the way he wrote it:
ANDREW CAMERON MINTON.
I broke a branch
so I could write to my child
in the margin of wet cement,
"I love you. I miss you.
Thank God I will see you again."
You see I have learned
chances don't come again.
I listen when they say,
"Opportunity is brief.
Remember cement gets hard.
Yesterday is set in concrete
unable to record your words."
Shall we go on? I have seven years to tell you.
I read the next question in your eyes:
"How have you managed to go on?"
You'll hate my answer:
more needlework,
perhaps a needlepoint pillow?
Let me paint
the canvas for you.
Now go home with your fists
full of rainbows of wool,
thread the needle yourself,
strain to see
through your tears,
pull each thread through the holes,
in and out like a pulse.
Nail your finished canvas on a frame,
stretch it square,
bind it with cord
braided of your hair.
Put it on your sofa, show it to your friends,
teach them One Day At a Time.
No more questions, but you are concerned.
You suggest I get out and get some exercise.
Exercise!? Exercise!?
Grief is isometric.
Are you looking at my face?
I have the face of a sprinter.
I grimace and strain
like the runners I saw
in the New York marathon.
Those toward the end were suffering,
dying, though more alive than most of us
cheering for people we didn't know,
"Don't give up! Keep going!"
Some were passing them water.
The runners ran on, some fell skinning their knees.
If you pass me a cup of water
you will see
what I see up the road —
a ragged uphill course I'm determined to finish.
I'll make it
if I pace myself,
forgive myself when I fall,
and stop long enough to accept the water you offer.
(to read a review of THE ANDREW POEMS click here…)
(to read this month's editorial about THE ANDREW POEMS click here…)