Forty years ago in my current body,
I waited for the call,
From down the college dormitory hall,
When life was fun, the only dreaded words,
"Pick up the pay phone Naaaaaat"
Only could be NYC calling to tell me
The cancer won, come home.
But the call didn't arrive,
Till I after I was degreed
And Ohio gone.
Tho I didn't get the call,
A few years later, I got the shoulder tap,
"You will stay and be the shomer,^
The guardian of your Fathers's body,
The morgue, your home for a night and a day
For t'is Sabbath day, we wait until the evening tide,
When the pros come to take him away."
Then I waited again for the call to come,
Same story, different body.
Five decades a long time to wait.
It came on early Sunday morn just past,
"Leave the bay, leave the beach,
Come home, she's nearly done."
Could be A.S.A.P., could be a day or three
But no question, time to start the prep,
For her, for thee, for the records of history.
She is 98 1/2 which is a
Long distance runner's dream
On a whim, left work early Friday past, in the rain,
Errands need doing, and been months since last
We touched, so squeezed in a visit, matter of luck.
Had not seen her so alive in years,
Tho time had robbed her of speech and pieces of her faculty,
She grasped my iPad, just like her 2 year old great-granddaughter,
Swiped the pictures of her descendants with robust determination,
Comely and fair, hair bouffant wavy, she never seemed
So marvelously contented, on top of her game.
The Vigil
Third day.
Breathing labored, loud, battlefield noises, then
Silence. But you monitor the teeny tiny chest heaves,
Ascertaining that the Divine Spark is still besting his Angel of Death.
But there are these periods of seconds when there is no sound,
Except for the instantaneous pounding in your own chest.
Then the process begins all over again.
Morphine in the refrigerator, when the rattling will begin,
To ease the passage painlessly between.
They say speak to her, she can hear you,
But the evidence is contradictory,
I am not convinced.
When no else is there,
I stroke her head and whisper in her ear,
"It's ok, time to let go, my mother fair."
You think to yourself alone,
This is not poetry,
This is real,
This is an extraordinary
Daily occurrence,
Life or death warfare.
Reflexively, she takes the arm of a granddaughter.
But when I lift her arm, it is without strength.
Only days before she grasped my arm,
With a fierceness that only the frail possess.
Her nails are painted Neon Pink.
The vigil continues to Day 4
This secret I've kept from y'all
For this is my new normal.
I now await the call.
^ http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shemira
"According to the Talmud (Genesis Kabbah 100:7), the soul hovers over the body for three days after death.[5] The human soul is somewhat lost and confused between death and before burial, and it stays in the general vicinity of the body, until the body is interred. The shomrim sit and read aloud comforting psalms during the time that they are watching the body.[6] This serves as a comfort for both the spirit of the departed who is in transition and the shomer or shomeret. Traditionally, shomrim read Psalms or the book of Job.[6] Shomrim are also encouraged to meditate, pray, and read spiritual texts, or texts about death.[6] Shomrim are prohibited from eating, drinking, or smoking in the shemira room out of respect for the dead, who can no longer do these things.[7]
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lipstadt-Roth, Miriam née Peiman, 1915~2013,
passed peacefully Sat. July 20th.
Critic, speaker, writer,
her fiercest feat,
her leading role, creator.
A near century of memories
her legacy, memories that
linger not, for incised,
chiseled in the granite of the
books, papers, and poetry
and the very being
of her descendants.
Her faith in Almighty,
unflagging, for he did not
forsake her in the time of
her old age, when
her strength failed.
~~~~~~~~~
Posted June 9th, 2013
Where/Why and the Who, I Am
I am a child of emigres,
Sojourners in a land that was not theirs,
Early risers, both long distance travelers,
- a traveling salesman who never forgot a customers name,
- a lover of Rembrandt, ceremonial Judaica, Broadway,
who shared her love for small stipends, traveling large distances.
They were transformational people, transformers of all they met.
Not great successes, yet well-reputed.
emphasize the small in smaller businessman,
emphasize the part in part-time lecturer, writer,
emphasize the fullness of full time mother,
An odd couple, continentally divided,
Germany and Canada and born many years apart
Never understood the pairing, the mystery of "them,"
Different in so many ways, but inspirational to many in their own way,.
Never till just now,
got the light bulb turned on to what was their secret sauce,
the connectivity essence that wove their web
and I had a front row seat!
Story tellers both,
and if their biggest dreams went unrealized,
no matter, no matter as long as they could tell stories,
Entrancing the many Sabbath table guests, Sisterhoods,
Their Passover table included everyone on the block,
Long before 'regardless of faith, creed and color' was extant
Even interlopers, those who would beg a meal,
The professional beggars who knocked at ten pm
never went away empty handed,
Any crying child who crossed their path taken in, was restored,
Authors of good night stories that incorporated your daily escapades
Their was no commonality in their separate tales,
Their upbringings were as different as Jupiter and Mars,
But in the telling was their planetary passion released,
His ramrod posture, highlighted by eye twinkling charms,
Germanic, on Saturdays he wore a Homburg and striped pants.
Was oft disturbed by the pressures of the real world,
Never took me to Yankee Stadium.
But to this day, his children are approached by strangers,
Grown men and women now,
Who all say the same thing,
I knew your father.
The where and why of my life is still a mystery to me,
What I will leave behind that is worth cherishing may be
Less than a zero sum game, but now I see that
Nature trumps nurture, for the story telling gene is
Strong in their offspring, inheritance, both sides.
What they gave me, all their children, was this:
The fearlessness to sign your name
to a public document like this poem,
to do small acts of public service kindness
and thousands of small private one for no thanks,
that lays yourself out, open to snide critique and ridicule,
Above all, tell stories.
The Where/Why of my parents lives'
explains mine somewhat,
or maybe even,
its entirety.
Feb 2012,
above the intersection of
Wyoming, Colorado and Utah