Güd wrtr

(for Donna)

Not waiting exactly,
but keeping an eye out

for the glimmer, the wink
of light that says she’s

still here in spirit, one we
asked her for before she left.

Like two days after her
departure when I smoothed

a clean towel into the open
cat carrier, preparing to move

the big guy who adored
her, the one who, as she took

her final breaths, flipped
onto his back under her

hospital bed, balancing on
the keel of his flexible spine,

all four paws paused in air
like becalmed furry flags.

Maxi walked into the box that
would take him forever from

her home to mine, then turned
and calmly settled his big self.

They never do that,
we said, closing the door

and latching it. We blinked
and one of us said,

Thanks, Mom, as Maxi
mewed in what we hoped

was agreement.

•••

Top photo: Kat Fleming (thanks, Kat!)

Go on, take a piece of mine.
Turns out, the heart regenerates

even after we give a bit away,
even when bits are taken.

They’re not so much broken
as nipped at, though some chunks

are larger, and heaven knows,
we feel deep cracks of sorrow

arrow through them like lightning.
But as our hearts endure so much

pain, they also swell with joy
as love born this day fills

those chunks and cracks with
slender ribbons of gold that

remind me to say, even now:
Have a heart, dear one,

a bit of mine to tuck into yours,
perhaps now, maybe later,

whenever you need it most.

Don’t be surprised if even on the darkest night
a new, holy light shines.
—Steve Garnaas-Holmes, from “Leveling”

Wholly light,
entirely, comprising all,
we find ourselves

humbled by the dark,
craving the sublime
glimmer that comes

with every shy dawn,
as we listen for each
breath of one

sliding away from
us, as the space
around us expands

like the universe,
cosmic acceleration
that we can’t see

but feel deep in our
cells—we tiny particles
of something

so much larger, so infinite,
the barest whisper
of the holy.

•••

(For this season of light in the dark that is Hanukkah and Christmas)

(in memory of Mom
July 6, 1931 – Dec. 21, 2024)

Driving home at noon, coming down
what was in our day a two-lane
road with a stop sign, I was
compelled to halt by a trio of lights
on a tall standard leaning over
the road like a leafless tree.

And there, next to a median,
lay a furry black-and-white
creature who had likely waddled
across the now four-lane road
when its luck ran out.

I had Strauss’ majestic tone poem
playing on my phone, knowing
that death and transfiguration
were imminent in the house
I had just left, too.

And with the scent of onions,
rotten eggs and burnt rubber
reaching me through the window
on that foggy, foggy day, I felt
my eyes cloud, then moisten,
releasing their brand of rain.

I didn’t know if they were for
the dead skunk or the beauty
of the music swelling to its
majestic peak, then gently
drifting upward, like fog lifting,
as I hoped she might ascend,

which she did several days later,
rising above it all into two
of her favorite elements—
pure light and limitless blue.

•••

You can listen (as I have been) to the finale of Richard Strauss’ “Tod und Verklärung” (“Death and Transfiguration”), a tone poem for orchestra written when Strauss was 25 years old—this moving version performed by the U.S. Marine Band.

What will survive of us is love.
—Philip Larkin, from “An Arundel Tomb”

Even if you feel that you didn’t get enough.

Even if you feel that you didn’t get enough
from the people you thought should have.

Even if you felt about half-full all your life,
that the tank, quite honestly, was running dry.

Even as you consider the woulda coulda shoulda
times you’d reached out a hand of compassion.

Even as you wish that you’d said the words
out loud to your dear ones,

that you’d given them a chance to lob them
back at you like a swift tennis ball.

What will survive of us is love.

What they will remember are the ways
you showed it—in the I’m proud of yous,

in the late-in-life thank yous,
in all that you did to feed, clothe, support,

encourage, cheer on, assist, educate
illuminate and provide.

Love survives in the DNA of those you
created and those who they created.

You did good. You did well.
Even as you fade, as they stand over you

whispering what they couldn’t tell you,
what you always longed to hear:

We love you, we love you, we love you.

•••

In memory of my mother, Dorothy (Darlene) Haag
July 6, 1931 – Dec. 21, 2024

In Utquigvik, Alaska, the sun does not rise
from mid-November until late January.

In Northern Norway the polar night
takes over from November through

the end of January, the sun lingering
a mere six degrees below the horizon.

And at the north pole, by the winter
solstice, they’ve not seen sunlight

or even twilight since early October.
But every afternoon the residual light

reflects off the sea, drenching the
shrouded landscape in ultramarine,

the blue hour arriving later each day
as the sun gains strength in a new year.

May we keep that in mind as we head
into the dark—our light shining warmth

when and where it’s coldest, sapphire
hope reflected in our damp eyes.

We are the light, the bringers of peace,
your hand reaching for mine,

mine reaching for yours, as we wait
together for the sun to rise again.

•••

You might also enjoy this: A Winter Solstice Song—“Find Our Way Home” by Lea Morris
(with thanks to Phyllis Cole-Dai for sharing it)

What if, even as we die,
we find that this time of advent,
of waiting, this in between
here and gone, is not
to be feared?

That each slowing exhale,
breath to breath to breath,
is a kind of bardo, the liminal state
between death and rebirth,
an outstretched hand between
generations, offering us a chance
to dance in this sacred moment.

That rather than resisting
this moment of finite existence,
we unfold with each exhale,
feel our joints loosen, too,
as hers let go.

That, of course, the unknown
end date to a lifetime is what
makes each one precious.

That this is an awakening,
this space of uncertainty,
that witnessing this undoing
is a portal into understanding.
That we are meant to be here
for this passage. That this
transition is an awakening,
for her, for us.

That as we orbit her dying star,
loosely tethered by DNA
and gravitational pull through
these long nights, all we can do
is hold each other with kindness.

That, even now—
in this moment-to-moment practice
of in-breath and out,
of opening and releasing,
of holding joy and sorrow in our arms—
we move through this graceful dance
into mystery.

As we return to presence.
As we return.

He is a maximum big-guy cat,
cries as he walks around Mother’s
hospital bed in the family room.

Normally, he’d be on her lap in her
big chair by the window, but now
he’s underneath her, talking,

as he does. And normally, she’d
answer him in a high voice,
“Yes, Maxi, I’m here.”

“Come on up,” she’d say,
patting her lap, and the big
lug would ka-thunk onto her

shrinking self and settle in
for a nap. Now, in between
here and gone, she says,

“Turn it off! Turn it off!”
though I have turned off
everything I can find that

makes noise. “It’s the cat,
Ma,” I say. “I can’t turn
him off.” But I lure her

loyal sentry into the next
room, sit on the floor where
he comes to me—

shy guy that he is
around everyone but
her—and allows a scritch

on his head, then leans
into my hand so I can get
to side of his face,

ending up in a big black
and white furry heap
next to me.

Not who he wants,
I know, but for now,
I’ll do.

(for Donna)

Tonight as I am tucked into my warm bed,
she is on the overnight in the house
where we grew up, my womb mate who
occupied the same space two years

after me, the little sister who, early
in our lives, became the more competent,
confident one, who now is the one
she who bore us looks to most

in her final days and these long nights.
My sister keeping vigil tonight, as
I will tomorrow, as each of us has
done for others through our long,

lucky lives given us by the one
fading now, who is at last sleeping
longer so there is a chance for
a bit of rest, a bit of respite.

We learn again by watching her:
It is not easy to leave a body, to
exit a long lifetime, especially when
she wants so desperately to stay—

even though part of her has
long been curious about
the what-comes-next, about
gliding into mystery,

about how she might be
carried on an exhale into
a starry canopy, perhaps
making one final modulation

into a twinkle twinkle,
joining all those sparkling
bits of wonder so luminous
in the night sky.

Her father would wince when he’d hear
Mom call us “you guys.” To Grandpa, the father
of two daughters, we were his precious
granddaughters, and this usage
stuck in his craw.

And though we preferred our rubber-toed
tennies (blue for my sister, red for me)
and corduroy pants to dresses and hard-soled
Mary Janes that did us no favors, we suffered
no gender confusion.

But Grandpa liked to tease. He’d type us
letters on his manual Smith Corona that began,
“Hiya, boys,” which made us giggle since he
loved to buy us frilly dresses, worn rarely
with the Mary Janes.

It was a matter of comfort, and our mom—
never a ‘50s TV mom in dress and apron—
knew that well herself, a pedal-pushers
and comfy shoes kind of gal, who was
no pushover.

“Knock it off, you guys!” she’d holler if we
were quibbling. Or “You guys be sure to use
the bathroom before you get in the car.”
Or to move us along: “C’mon, you guys.”

Now we guys tend her in her final days,
lingering around the house more than we have
in years. We guys jumped when she struggled
to move from the recliner that cradled her
fading self. We guys followed her as she
guided her walker down the hall. We guys
helped her choose the bright pink shirt
for our holiday photo.

Now we guys adjust her in the hospital
bed she never wanted. We tuck medication
under her pale tongue that rarely speaks.

“For this you want daughters,” she told me
when she still could.

“Well, it’s good you had two of them,” I said.

She nodded, looking up at me with
mother radar, tuning in the details
of my face that she can no longer see.

“What would I do without you guys?”

What will we guys do without her?

•••

Top photo: Sisters Janis (left) and Donna (right) Haag,
ages about 6 and 4, Orange County, California.