Güd wrtr

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.

And now before dawn,
a storm rages just
outside the sliding
glass door,

the suddenly bare
branches of our
family trees
shivering, dripping,

as one of us inside
is leaving, one whose
storms once raged
though this house.

She lies quietly now
in the family room
where we all watched
Sullivan and Disney,

occasionally shifting
her much smaller self
in the rented bed,
syllables falling

like raindrops from
her parched mouth:
Donna, Donna, Donna,
and my sister responds,

I’m here, Mom—what do
you need? She can’t say much:
up, achy, help, no.
We move her from side

to back and later to other
side. We change her as we
used to change the babies,
rolling them over to affix

new drawers into which
they can pee, though she
resists this, wants to make
one more slow march down

the hall with the walker,
though the legs that once
jogged and water skied will
no longer support her.

So we do, sitting this vigil
at the family home by the lake,
keeping watch by night
and into a new day,

while outside the window,
something has relented—
stillness after such storm,
the trees finally at rest.

Now there is no going in or going out.
Now there is just here, the final here.

Now there is where she hasn’t wanted
to go. Where a week ago, traveling between

here and gone, pairs of unfamiliar eyes
and the face of a cat danced before hers.

Scary, she said then, through wet butterfly
lashes, seeking reassurance from us as

we used to seek hers when, as children in
this house, we’d awaken scared in the night,

pad down the hall to their room where we
would whisper over her sleeping form,

I had a bad dream. She’d murmur,
It’s just a dream. Go back to sleep.

We would stand, trembling, not wanting
to return to the slender bed alone,

though we did, for a moment,
to retrieve pillow and blanket

to bed down on the floor next to her.
Tonight as she sleeps in the family room,

still breathing but not awakening,
we will sleep in the same room with her.

We hold her hand, saying what we wanted
to hear: It’s OK. You’re safe. We love you.

Fly now, butterfly. You can go.
Fly on home.

It’s hard work, this love
no matter what anyone says.
—Louise Glück

•••

No one tells you that,
besides all the little things
the dying need help with,
it’s hard work tending
the one on her way,

the one who will not
give up, give in, even as
her bright light fades,
determined to go on, even as
her body has other ideas.

You’re here to focus on her,
but scenes from growing up
in this house flicker like the end
of an old film, as you sit this vigil,
keep watch by night in this season
of waiting.

You want to pray and sing and
praise. You want to be a lantern
of encouragement, as you wipe
and adjust, bring water, bring pills,
try to comfort the uncomfortable.
You tend to that which can no
longer be easily contained or
flushed or ignored.

Until, after weeks of agitation,
she falls silent. And the colors
of waiting now take on a more
muted hue.

It’s the height of indignity,
this dying after a long life,
this love, but you have said yes
to the witnessing, the tending,
this most important work,

some of the very heartest
that you—and she—
will ever do.

When it’s cool and sunny,
heading toward the end of the year.
Everything in place. Having had
one last vanilla shake, eyes closed,
relishing the creaminess going down
a parched throat.

Trees still releasing the last
of their bounty, some already
bare, their slender limbs reaching,
always, for the blue.

It’s a good day to die, as our friend
the obituary writer used to say when he
had lots of space to fill in the newspaper,
so he could give people a really good
sendoff.

Just look at this world—
calm and bright, clean and light.
And look, just there, through the veil,
you can see the smiling eyes
of those who wait,

friendly beings, who, on a slight
whoosh of breeze, extend their arms,
waving, who look so happy to greet you.