That’s the secret, love. It’s not about finding what you’re searching for…it’s about valuing what you find. (Reed Logan Westgate, The Infernal Games)
Time. I find so little of it lately. And yet, this poem, written four years ago, hits me as if I’d written it yesterday.
GENE’S WORDS—AT HIS OWN FUNERAL
My death started in January
when bare branches caressed snow
cold as my body.
My friend, the gentle priest,
stood at one end of the casket
and asked if he blessed my head or feet.
He didn’t know I laughed, hearing him
from the gnarled branches of a nearby tree,
where a bright, red cardinal and I
waited to fly together into new,
exciting places I would never be able
to explain to those left behind.
The priest had commented on my raucous
sense of humor. He paused, memory or imagination
filling in the blanks. Church space remained
reverent. Stifled laughs warmed my spirit, the chill
of my body left behind. My eulogist spoke
about schizophrenia, paranoia. I carried
the burden and pain. My friend said I
was not my diagnosis. He mentioned
common moments. Coffee, killer cigarettes, picnics,
my volatile, unstable movements
as if they had been claps of thunder
during a hymn. Something that happens,
and can be embraced as part of a larger whole.
A woman reached one arm around her husband.
Their son held his infant daughter. I carried
the baby’s father as an infant. My cardinal
companion flew upward. I followed.
A voice came from a light breaking through
the winter gray. Your fear has been buried.
Come. I had never heard the voice.
Yet, I knew death had ended, a new life begun.
pic made from public domain photo and pastels
terrypetersen 