Remembering the creek ...

 

remembering

the creek where I swam 

with Andrew

Age is for ...

Age is for 

reminiscence. I think 

of times with 

Andrew. Or with 

Bill. And years 

of various friends.

‘The things we 

did,’ I say 

to myself in 

wonder. ‘Oh, such 

things we did!’

Here is the day ...

Here is the day that Andrew died 

eleven years ago. Eleven years

of getting on without him —

although of course he is still 

present in other ways, always. 

It was better weather that day

than this, I think, though I didn’t 

see much of it, sitting with him 

from just after breakfast until

the shocking silence, when his breathing 

suddenly stopped, five hours later.

This year, at last, I remembered

my dear niece’s birthday, September 1st,

on the actual day as well as beforehand

and some time after – the first year it wasn’t 

eclipsed as soon as September began

by today’s date looming. One more 

milestone in the long re-adjustment.

This isn't such a very small poem! But then, what it describes is not exactly small, either.

Time, at last, to ...

Time, at last, to go through my late husband’s papers. My stepdaughter comes from Melbourne, giving moral support with practical help.

One box for what she wants,

one for things I’ll keep,

one to chuck.

Do you remember…?

Did you know…?

Were you there when…?

Wasn’t he the dearest man? 

Both my mother and my husband ...

Both my mother and my husband Andrew died at 83. It made me a little superstitious about surviving this age, but I’ve now outlived them both by some months – and I’m not yet tired of life, as I think they both were at the end, their bodies having become incapacitated. 

I renew good resolutions about more exercise, about getting all my books written, and getting the books of others read. (I have to live long enough for Diana Gabaldon to finish writing her Outlander series. They are lengthy books, rich in detail, products of much research; she can’t do them fast.) 

in old age

I do everything slower 

but time speeds up

Happy Birthday ...

 

‘Happy Birthday!’ I say 

to each of three friends

(who don’t know each other, 

nor that they share this date)

taking a moment

and more than a moment

to think of the other: 

Andrew …  ten years dead.