Called to Thanksgiving
for my brother
With your body laid down,
we begin the unforgiving
pattern of forgetting what
we cannot hold before us.
We re-run the memories
time disfigures then re-cuts:
a silhouette cannot contain
the whole of you, who you
were before your final hour,
quieting just as the sun was
rising to the point of the day.
Our fingers numb as we patch
through old albums for clues
to the flesh the blood the bone,
we find and lose our faith
in answers, still want for praise
of the priest once more calling
us to our own thanksgiving.
© 2012 Maureen E. Doallas
Thursday, November 22, 2012
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6 comments:
Thank you for this.I just stepped out of the kitchen because it's shockingly painful to handle pans and utensils once reserved for special times.My wife had a very satisfying career, but when she entered her kitchen at holiday time all that was left in town.She loved our home in the gentle,old hills and an easy faith always accompanied the crisp light that filtered through protective windows. Her birthday would have been next week and I just don't remember it being so cold.People will be here this afternoon and I have no idea what I'm doing.At least the turkey came with directions.There's this secret exhaustion that comes with constantly rebuilding memories out of shadows.
What a powerful poem of thanksgiving Maureen.
And thank you -- I feel my brother's spirit shimmer in your words.
Happy Thanksgiving my friend.
Being thankful in the hard to understand places. Beautifully written, Maureen. Blessings to you.
thankfulness, grief, loss, faith, life and death has a way of blending into a drink of hard bitter-sweet remembrance.
we begin the unforgiving
pattern of forgetting what
we cannot hold before us.
This moves me so much. You know.
I have no adequate words. How the years remember and forget is a mystery. May they be re-cut...may we be re-membered by the gentle hand of love.
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