R.I.P. Uncle J

Uncle J was buried yes­ter­day. He hung on for weeks, and they’d final­ly moved him to home hos­pice care just a few days before he passed. At least he was­n’t in pain at the end, and the fam­i­ly did get to say what­ev­er they need­ed to say.

Mom is tak­ing this real­ly hard. She says it’s con­cern for Aunt B, and I’m sure that’s part of it. I can’t being to imag­ine the agony of los­ing your spouse of 48 years. I have to think, though, that some of it is Mom’s fear that it may be Dad­dy next time. I’m wor­ried about her.

Poetry: Jane Kenyon

The Blue Bowl
by Jane Keny­on

Like prim­i­tives we buried the cat
with his bowl. Bare-handed
we scraped sand and gravel
back into the hole.
                               They fell with a hiss
and thud on his side,
on his long red fur, the white feathers
between his toes, and his
long, not to say aquiline, nose.

We stood and brushed each oth­er off.
There are sor­rows keen­er than these.

Silent the rest of the day, we worked,
ate, stared, and slept. It stormed
all night; now it clears, and a robin
bur­bles from a drip­ping bush
like the neigh­bor who means well
but always says the wrong thing.

Oth­er­wise: New & Select­ed Poems