Year of Writing 51 Elegies.

2/21/12

In preparing for my elegy lesson for 7th and 8th graders tomorrow, I realized I have been using the same poem I wrote for my Grandma Horn at least 10 years ago.  It is a good piece, and I will still use it with it's refrain, but if that is the only remembrance I have, I am not honoring the other people who have passed from this life and touched mine.

To my Grandpa Horn:   The earliest memory I have stored away is at your funeral.  Someone gave me a decorative sword issued to you by either the military or army for service.  I remember the pommel; the feel of the leather against my hand. I remember feeling larger than I was - holding the sword high, looking up it's blade to the sun. I remember wondering if you could see me, if you were there in the harsh brightness of that reflection.

To Lou:  I stop to marvel at every puddle with eddies of oil. The swirls in my coffee are still there every morning. I still pay attention to their movement.  I am sure you direct them in their patterns. 

To my Grandpa Gardner:  You wrote me into existence, literally.  Your words keep bumping into me on busy sidewalks and bright fields; they are a warm handshake.  I wear your poems like sunglasses, they make the world less harsh.  As you were dying, the clouds cleared from your eyes for a moment, your throat wouldn't give voice to the words you wanted to say.  I felt your frustration, the frantic, deep need to release what was stuck there.  I heard.   I still hear.

To my Mema:  Cancer is a heartless companion, but you held it in your womb nonetheless.  You are the mother absolute; I realized when you were gone how many people your embrace could hold.  I sing you to my daughter and son, I sing you softly to myself when the hurt gathers in my stomach.  You are an elixir.  I miss you like my childhood.