Thursday, September 20, 2012

We Never Thought We Would Live Forever (Although We Did)

One of the real life situations I've alluded to but haven't written about here has reached end game. My mother-in-law died last night. We begrudged each other then grew to like and respect each other but there was always the distance of our differences in what each of us thought important between us. Send your good thoughts to Earthgirl.

There is much to think and write about, some of it ghastly and horrifying re: geriatric care, some of it hilarious and ghastly re: the ghouls from the funeral home last night at midnight. I've been trained to think it tasteless to write about the latter at all, much less today, much less here, I've never denied that I'm still mostly leashed and when not leashed still e-collared and dog-fenced everywhere and anywhere. As for geriatric care, if it was more humane the ghouls might not be so ghoulish or turn such an obscene profit.


A.R. Ammons

The people of my time are passing away: my
wife is baking for a funeral, a 60-year-old who

died suddenly, when the phone rings, and it's
Ruth we care so much about in intensive care:

it was once weddings that came so thick and
fast, and then, first babies, such a hullabaloo:

now, it's this that and the other and somebody
else gone or on the brink: well, we never

thought we would live forever (although we did)
and now it looks like we won't: some of us

are losing a leg to diabetes, some don't know
what they went downstairs for, some know that

a hired watchful person is around, some like
to touch the cane tip into something steady,

so nice: we have already lost so many,
brushed the loss of ourselves ourselves: our

address books for so long a slow scramble now
are palimpsests, scribbles and scratches: our

index cards for Christmases, birthdays,
Halloweens drop clean away into sympathies:

at the same time we are getting used to so
many leaving, we are hanging on with a grip

to the ones left: we are not giving up on the
congestive heart failure or brain tumors, on

the nice old men left in empty houses or on
the widows who decide to travel a lot: we

think the sun may shine someday when we'll
drink wine together and think of what used to

be: until we die we will remember every
single thing, recall every word, love every

loss: then we will, as we must, leave it to others to
love, love that can grow brighter

and deeper till the very end, gaining strength
and getting more precious all the way. . . .


  1. Yeah, blooger has me pretty pissed off right now.

    Finally close to finishing a post that would have been a piece of cake with the old interface.

    Those fuckers!

  2. Sorry about the loss. Jessica Mitford got it right, but we have forgotten her. Best to yours.

  3. Very sorry about the loss. Best to you and yours.

  4. Good thoughts sent.

    If another world is happening, then the old one's still rarin' where local newscast moguls send a talking hairpiece to stand in line with huddled campers for the next iPhone.