After all the good times are reconciled and bad times forgiven, I have never before or since wondered why I married this woman. She is, after all, the best person I've ever met. She is the home of my heart.
One of our two cats, I'm sorry to say, is dying. It may be a few weeks or a few months, hell, I really don't know. All I do know is that my little black and white furry comrade will soon be leaving us. I'm sure my parents in heaven will welcome him with open arms, pet and comb him, hand feed him thin sliced smoked turkey breast (his favorite) and spoil him with all manner of affection for eternity amongst the clouds.
Until the day comes when he passes from one world to the next, I am daily seeing a tableau of the images of Kelley wrapping Skittles in a towel fresh from the dryer, feeding him kitten formula from a eyedropper, speaking softly and sweetly to him, monitoring his weekly weight loss and crying while sitting across the kitchen table from me...
...if we can just get him to eat...
...if we can just get his weight up...
...if we can just keep him comfortable...
...until he dies...
It is especially in these moments of tender simplicity that I see the heart of this woman. The question as to who else I could have married and spent all these years, raised these children and weathered the hurricanes and near bankruptcies with never arises. Especially in times like these.
If I were given no choice but to sky dive into the middle of ground zero and extricate myself from the hells therein, no blanket would I wish to be swaddled in upon my emergence, but hers.
We caressed and kissed
in the kitchen
last night
I cried into your hair
as we whispered
I love you
as we have always
across a million aeons
Your tender shroud of light
graced the floor
we tiptoed across
and I noticed my silhouette
clasped by your angel
holding me to your lips
drawing from me
every last desperate breath
I have sucked
in this life
attempting to hold onto
every last prayer
I have offered
in each drunken midnight
and every painful dawn
I cursed.
I claim not to know
but only sense
in this house
those of us gathered
could do aught else
but convene
beneath our roof
and within our walls
We shatter
to one another
our imperfect mosaics
and help each other
reconstruct ourselves again
and over again
I knew nothing
of the outside world
except of the pain
it had brought me
All I know
is when I turn the key
I am greeted
by their silent acceptance
The family
I would have sworn
I don't deserve
welcomes me home
again
and again
My wife and her clutch
on my soul
My daughter and her eyes
plucked from
my father's ghost
clear blue and full of compassion
My son and his courage
in spite
of his tender heart
displays an armor
I can only hope
to emulate
Each day when I leave
I pray
the 91st and 23rd psalms
so that when I return
beneath this roof
and within these walls
for as long
as we are graced
with this time together
I never
take for granted
this love
of us four
I hope
one day
they realize they
are the answer
to the prayers
that turned a bitter atheist
away from the side
of a cliff
and the shards below
whereupon
I would be torn
beyond recognition
my identity obliterated
and every trace
of my birth
eradicated
save for the placenta
which was long since cast
to the gulls
since my ejection
left to make the best
of my cursed existence
wandering the wastes
until arriving
at our door
with this ring
their blankets
and my reason
to be alive.
With all my love,
Max
PS. I wrote this poem for Kelley, Amber and Daniel sometime during the winter of last year. The accompanying narrative was scribbled on legal pads and typed up this past Monday and Tuesday nights. In the predawn hours of Thursday, my little friend passed on. I was with him when he drew his last breath. I think that's how he wanted it to be. It was graceful, painless and without fear. I buried him beneath the wild rose bush in our back yard as the sun rose. In the distance, I heard a train and knew he was well on his way. Kelley and the kids have shed their share of tears and are dealing with the loss as well as can be expected. Like any friend who is not there anymore, expected or not, it hurts like a son of a bitch and the pain doesn't retract any quicker, no matter how deeply one grieves or how much transcendental wisdom one possesses. As for me, I'm happy that he is not sick anymore and at peace. In these last few sentences here at the laptop is the first time my waterworks are beginning to open. Not for him, but for me and us. After all, when the time has come, death is easy, life is the tough part.
Blessings and love,
Max
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