I remember this one, because I never forgot the way you described her fall, a movie you scripted in your head, a preview, then in real time. I remember thinking, this is exactly how I would feel if I watched my husband literally head towards possible life changing disaster. Because it happens that way, doesn’t it. Your brilliant transition into the pandemic;
“Speeding up now, speeding up...
Goodbye and into the fire
Getting much harder now:
This, too. Fire.
Towards the end now.
Fire.
Three memories left, so two must go.
Fire.
Two left. One to go.
The hospital.”
This stands alone as a poem. Truthfully, I cannot find the right words, each and every paragraph is beautiful, painful, hits a nerve and stays, vibrating. Looking over your shoulder at the past. It is history after all, and we lived it. We were lucky. And I must find something to hold on to so it never becomes a faded, unrecognizable memory. You ‘whittled’ it down for me. I realize you may have written this for yourself, so you would not forget, but you also wrote it for me. I cannot think of a better way to say thank you for putting it to words, now, once again, I see it clearly. My one, if I had to choose;
“In a parking lot behind the hospital there are rows and rows of white refrigerator tractor trailer”. I will store this memory, label it ‘Stella Blue’.
Requiem …03/26/2023;
I remember this one, because I never forgot the way you described her fall, a movie you scripted in your head, a preview, then in real time. I remember thinking, this is exactly how I would feel if I watched my husband literally head towards possible life changing disaster. Because it happens that way, doesn’t it. Your brilliant transition into the pandemic;
“Speeding up now, speeding up...
Goodbye and into the fire
Getting much harder now:
This, too. Fire.
Towards the end now.
Fire.
Three memories left, so two must go.
Fire.
Two left. One to go.
The hospital.”
This stands alone as a poem. Truthfully, I cannot find the right words, each and every paragraph is beautiful, painful, hits a nerve and stays, vibrating. Looking over your shoulder at the past. It is history after all, and we lived it. We were lucky. And I must find something to hold on to so it never becomes a faded, unrecognizable memory. You ‘whittled’ it down for me. I realize you may have written this for yourself, so you would not forget, but you also wrote it for me. I cannot think of a better way to say thank you for putting it to words, now, once again, I see it clearly. My one, if I had to choose;
“In a parking lot behind the hospital there are rows and rows of white refrigerator tractor trailer”. I will store this memory, label it ‘Stella Blue’.
reminded me -
Covid Gestalt
Here, where the room lives:
its walls lined with memories
and books; chairs changed by occupancies:
arms worn; legs chapped;
backs bent to the comfort of those moved on,
gone to live in other rooms,
gloom speaks to upholstery.
Misery talks back.
Here, where the room lives,
a freeze framed archived symmetry
now looks, sadly, over what has been,
and lost, and lacked.
Silently, cacophony calls back.
Voiceless, unsound memory
retraces life’s tracks.
Here, where the room lives,
unseated of company
I move from chair to chair
replaying the commentaries
of those who were once there
arguing their point of view,
moved by cushions shaped,
engraved, bequeathed speech,
and left to the bereft.
Cherry Coombe 2021
“Left to the bereft,” a perfect close. Thanks for sharing your work, Cherry.
thank you - good to meet here in this way
What a treat!!
These sound like some really cool stories. I can definitely relate the one about his father's last days. Great post, Adam.