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.
His father died last night. He didn’t want any kind of funeral. We’re going to see his mom.
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