Güd wrtr

(for Rebecca)

Once again, after the quiet
explosion of death,

the presence of the beloved
persists, as companion spirits do,

lingering in the present tense
near those who cherish them.

We cannot yet think in the “was,”
as we sink into the after-space

that they occupied in the filing
cabinet of our hearts,

catalogued under “the living,”
not yet comprehending

their move into the file
marked “past tense.”

We’re not ready for that.
We find ourselves opening

the file folder again and
again to allow their souls

to waft up at us like the scent
of bread rising, the kneaded

dough still imprinted with
their fingerprints. Go ahead.

Take a whiff. Inhale their
essence as often as you want.

They are right there with us
even as we ache for their

vanished physical selves,
as our hearts, blasted open,

ooze in the aftermath with
the love that will carry us

all the rest of our days.

(Lake Tahoe, west shore)

On the second day at the lake
a storm warning and prophetic
graying skies, rimmed by a hint
of light over the mountains
to the east.

Sure enough, about mid-afternoon,
I walk to the same spot overlooking
the beach, where yesterday beamed
with unseasonable warmth
and happy lake-goers,

where today I watch a pewter sea
of clouds turn thick and muscular,
cumulonimbus body builders
obscuring the far shore,
and beneath them a vertical
a wall of white moving north.

I love listening to thunder
when it rumbles through this
great granite bowl like
the lowest note on the biggest
tympani, though not when it
turns ominous, slamming the sky
like a sharp whack on a bass drum.

Now the temperature drops as
the wind picks up, the pine boughs
above me starting to shimmy,
the lake matching the sky, no longer
the rich cobalt of yesterday.

But two mallards swim and float
near shore as I imagine they do
daily in their ongoing search
for sustenance, seemingly
unconcerned about weather.

Now comes the rain, gently
polka-dotting the surface
at first, drops bouncing as if
the rain gods have loosed
thousands of marbles along
with the rolling thunder
and lightning I cannot see.

I think of the boatful of family
and friends celebrating a birthday
on this lake two months ago
on the summer solstice, caught in
a wicked afternoon storm that
no one predicted, choppy ocean-
sized waves capsizing the boat,
drowning eight.

Today one small boat churns
steadily south, and I, the only one
watching from this rise above
the beach, raise the hood
of my jacket, whispering,
Peace, white light and safety,
my constant prayer these days,

hoping that this boatman soon
reaches safe harbor, gets securely
tucked in, as we all need to be
until this storm passes.

(Lake Tahoe, west shore,
Labor Day 2025)

You are here—
me, too—
by the Big Blue

that is so cold…
(how cold is it?).
I remember two

little girls who grew
up next to what they
considered “their”

lake, who were long
ago brought to this
ginormous one

situated in a
equally ginormous
granite bowl

rimmed by pines.
They shivered as
their tender toes

curled in the brisk
cobalt water, feet
treading the stony

bottom, inching in
up to their knees,
quickly stumbling

out with numb soles.
“What good is a lake
if you can’t get in it?”

they demanded of
their amused parents
standing onshore.

Today we watch kids
and dogs and even
several grownups

wading, floating
in the Big Blue,
smiling, chuckling.

Even on this warming
planet, this lake is still
the second deepest

in the country, holding
37 trillion gallons of
mostly snowmelt that

never sees daylight,
only the top layer
barely sun-warmed.

Those brave folk?
“They must be
Europeans,” you say.

“Or from Alaska,”
I say, as we admire
their bravery,

an act of adventurous
souls who—in a
different way from us

timid landlubbers—
are making the most
of their Labor Day vacay.

That, when I bent over and kissed her cheek as she lay on the sofa—the spot from which she would not rise the next morning—I didn’t say, aloha nui loa, mahalo nui loa—much love, many thanks.

That I didn’t say the same to her adoring husband sitting in a chair next to her, ready to get her anything she might ask for.

That her brother, my longtime sweetheart, stood nearby, thinking, like me, that we’d see her again.

That I said we would return in three days to talk about details for her “after-story.” That I didn’t want to use the word “obituary,” though she knew what I meant. That her generous, struggling heart was already counting its final beats.

Sorry that while I still have breath, she no longer does.

That as my belly swells and my ribs rise, air filling my chest up to my collarbone, she will never issue a hearty chuckle or sing a favorite song or dance to a good jazz band or cook a family dinner.

That I will never again sit at her table, happy to eat anything that woman put on a plate

That her essence will hover in my kitchen each time I make custards the way her mother taught her, the ones I brought this sorta-sister-in-law in her final months.

Sorry that I still don’t have all the particulars to write a proper obit.

That we will never again stand together before the fridge in her kitchen, looking at one of my poems affixed to the silvery box with a magnet shaped like a flip-flop.

That she—who claimed that she didn’t “get” poetry—will no longer tell me that she got a kick out of a particular poem and quote lines she liked.

Sorry that we’ll never again see her smile, which was—to so many who loved her—the perfect poem.

•••

(In memory of Margery Thompson, 1946–2025, the best sorta-sister-in-law ever.)

In late August when the sycamore
starts tossing leaves brittled by
unrelenting sun, I’m always
surprised to find the lawn
littered with the dead and
dying. It happens annually,
but it feels unseasonably early.

I’ve called this sycamore mine
for 38 summers. Perhaps
our real purpose is not to
imagine that we own anything,
but to embrace the notion of
caretaking, that we are here
to take care of what needs
taking care of. Especially
each other, I think as
my feet crunch over what
lies beneath, as I take up
the wide fan of a rake,
and begin taking care
again.

“It’s always more fun to eat out,”
I tell my neighbor whose kitty
wanders down to my porch

most mornings. “Hi, Hercules,”
I say, as he sits politely
but expectantly, waiting

for breakfast. Sometimes dinner.
It’s not that he doesn’t
get fed at home, his mom

has told me more than once.
But look at this perfect al fresco
dining spot—atop my car on

this early evening in late summer—
as the little prince rises from
the warm roof to stretch

in perfect cat pose, blinking
as I set the plastic dish
before him. He needs

no urging, diving into his
chicken paté with the gusto
of an eager patron

at one of his favorite
restaurants, looking up
at me after a few bites,

licking his lips before
returning to his dinner
in what I’m pretty sure

is a fine feline thank you.

That’s the pisser—
the dilemma with no
easy resolution,

no good answer:
when to hold on,
when to let go.

We are a holding-on
species, reluctant
letter-goers,

especially when our
tender hearts
ache with loss.

We want this one
back, never wanted
that one to go,

the clench of grief
squeezing the woulda
coulda shouldas

of regret. Let us sigh,
pen little love notes
onto sticky squares,

and tuck them into
a handmade blue
urn, gently settling

the lid on top, and
sigh again, hoping
that with time,

the messages may
grow wings,
alight and find

their way to those
who need to hear
the I miss yous,

the I’m sorries,
the I wish I hads,
the I love yous,

the thankyou
thankyou
thankyous

that we can
never say
enough.

You left Wednesday, Marge, before
I could return Friday to take down details
of your 79 years for the obit.

You’ve been in hospice for only
two weeks, moved to independent
living less than a month ago, and

though I haven’t married your brother,
you’ve been the sorta sister-in-law I didn’t
know I needed for three decades now.

Yesterday, an hour before sunset—
the last one you would see,
as it happened—before your brother

and I left you half asleep on the sofa,
I asked if we might talk about details
for what I called “your after-story.”

“You can tell me to buzz off, if that’s
not something you want to do,” I said.
And you, under your soft, heated

blanket with its little red gauge
beaming, smiled and said, “Sure,”
and I asked, “Friday?” and you said,

“Sure,” as your brother and husband
talked quietly behind us. I’d brought
what turned out to be your

final batch of custards—just four
instead of the usual eight because
you were barely eating.

I hope you had part of one, that
some of your last bites on Earth,
what slipped down your parched

throat as your struggling heart
slowed and stuttered, were of that
smooth eggy-ness your mother

used to make, which you taught me
to make, along with your creamy
cheesecake, your late son’s favorite,

which I hope they have waiting
for you in your heaven. Where I’m sure
they’ve been readying your party

with all things pink—your color—
from balloons to streamers,
and a good traditional jazz band

you can dance to along with
a whole crew of your beloveds,
hands and hearts extended,

who’ve been expecting you.
I hope you heard your mother’s
gentle voice calling you

—Margery!—
summoning you from play
in the yard with your brothers,

Time to come home!
And you, beloved daughter,
sister, wife, mother, friend,

went, quietly,
as was your way,
eager to join the party.

•••

In memory of Margery Ann Schmidt Malekian Thompson
Aug. 13, 1946–Aug. 27, 2025

(and no, it doesn’t rhyme with “violets”*)

You want me to write a triolet?
OK, then, I’ll try.
Turns out it’s a fun game to play.
You want me to write a triolet?
Once I start, I might just do this all day.
Testing my wings, I find I can fly.
You want me to write a triolet?
OK, then, I’ll try.

•••

Now that I’ve written a triolet,
where do I go from here?
Diving into a virtual word bouquet
now that I’ve written a triolet.
So many themes I could portray—
maybe a love poem, dear.
Now that I’ve written a triolet,
where do I go from here?

•••

Well, then a love poem it shall be,
But for whom? Maybe for youm?
Avoiding clichés of moon or tree,
well, then a love poem it shall be.
Maybe toss in a hummingbird or bee
to make the little poem zoom.
Well, then a love poem it shall be,
But for whom? Maybe for youm?

•••

*In case you want to know…
The triolet (TREE-oh-lay) dates back to 13th century France
and is an eight-line poem with a lot of repetition and only
two rhymes used throughout. (And the plural really is
triolets, pronounced TREE-oh-lays.)

•••

(Thanks to Ellen Rowland for the prompt that plunged me into the triolet!)

Not that I ever mastered perfect parking,
much less parallel, although living in a city

all these years, I have gotten better. But I
find myself deeply annoyed one dark night

by the yellow flap of paper-that-is-not-a-ticket
waiting under my windshield wiper,

bearing a handwritten warning:
A vehicle may not be parked over a white line.

No, of course not, though mine is the only
car in this section of the condo complex lot,

a spot I frequently occupy, where the white
lines are so faint, especially at night, that

I cannot see them, though Mr. Security Guy
can. I have been known to get out of the car,

look for the lines, get back in the car, readjust.
I consider myself a courteous parker,

but this little yellow record of my “first offense”
hoists my hackles, bruises my feelings.

As the song says, They just keep movin’ the line.
So much shifting, all the lines becoming

more vague, increasingly wobbly, as we do,
until I fear becoming an old lady driver

who younger ones swear at. Maybe,
it occurs to me, I already am.

Driving home, the reprimand glaring
at me from the passenger seat, I find

myself behind a driver going 20 mph
in a 30 mph zone. I feel my misplaced

annoyance begin to rise as the little yellow
non-ticket catches the gleam of a street light,

until that unnamable something comes
over me, unseen hands pressing

my shoulders back where they belong,
swelling my belly with breath,

and my foot eases off the gas with
an exhale, a letting go, a settling,

finally slowing into the speed I am
apparently meant to be going.

•••

Listen to “They Just Keep Movin’ the Line,” sung by Megan Hilty
in the TV series “Smash.”