Friday, Day 27: Wax
I'm cheating a little, because it's the busiest time of year in academia. This is not a new poem, but it seems an appropriate one for a study of the Resurrection. Rest in peace, Bob--never forgotten. Hard to believe it's been more than four years since we lost you--and since I had this amazing dream.
Gathering
For Bob
I dream I am sweeping flakes of wax
from the floor of a long, narrow room.
The other refugees turn in their sleep
like a row of flags that curl and tighten,
over and over, in the wind.
from the floor of a long, narrow room.
The other refugees turn in their sleep
like a row of flags that curl and tighten,
over and over, in the wind.
Only my daughter and I are awake.
“What are you doing, mom?” she asks me
in the same small, steady voice she used,
when I heard you died, to ask
“What is the news?
Why are you crying?”
in the same small, steady voice she used,
when I heard you died, to ask
“What is the news?
Why are you crying?”
“Trying to save what I can,” I say.
She says she wants to help,
kneels and makes her hands into
small dams against the floor.
I sweep the remnants toward her. And then
we begin to see what they could be,
the uneven softness pressed and shaped
like dough between her small, unsteady palms.
There are wicks tangled in the wax, fragments
of glass and clay casings that hold together
with her touch. “We’re fixing them,”
She says she wants to help,
kneels and makes her hands into
small dams against the floor.
I sweep the remnants toward her. And then
we begin to see what they could be,
the uneven softness pressed and shaped
like dough between her small, unsteady palms.
There are wicks tangled in the wax, fragments
of glass and clay casings that hold together
with her touch. “We’re fixing them,”
my daughter says, laughing,
and then you wheel into the room,
your sweatshirt loose as wings
around your frame, lips pressed together
to gather up your pain into resolve,
baseball cap a little crooked on your head.
your sweatshirt loose as wings
around your frame, lips pressed together
to gather up your pain into resolve,
baseball cap a little crooked on your head.
Over and over, I brought you weeping students
whom you would calm by saying, simply,
“Maybe in a minute you can tell me
what you need.” You would sit back, wait,
or sometimes, resort to the silly, the absurd:
“If I can’t fix this
I’ll just wheel myself around here
until I find someone who can.”
whom you would calm by saying, simply,
“Maybe in a minute you can tell me
what you need.” You would sit back, wait,
or sometimes, resort to the silly, the absurd:
“If I can’t fix this
I’ll just wheel myself around here
until I find someone who can.”
Today, for the first time, we meet
outside of crisis. You park your chair
and lean back to watch us, smiling.
I sweep. My daughter gathers,
presses, shapes. We do not hurry.
We work without talking
among the long, labored breaths around us.
“Not fixing,” you say after awhile.
“Just gathering and making sense.”
I tell you to rest.
We will do the work you’ve left behind.
We won’t be too busy or too hurried.
outside of crisis. You park your chair
and lean back to watch us, smiling.
I sweep. My daughter gathers,
presses, shapes. We do not hurry.
We work without talking
among the long, labored breaths around us.
“Not fixing,” you say after awhile.
“Just gathering and making sense.”
I tell you to rest.
We will do the work you’ve left behind.
We won’t be too busy or too hurried.
As we talk, my daughter works the wax
into a fire, small but persistent enough
to wake the refugees
And I see, then:
they are the students
we have lost or almost lost:
Megan,
into a fire, small but persistent enough
to wake the refugees
And I see, then:
they are the students
we have lost or almost lost:
Megan,
Murdock,
Anthony and Anna,
Emily,
Emily,
Sarah,
Tiffany and Bobbi,
and everyone else, too—
stretching and sighing, getting dressed,
getting ready.
stretching and sighing, getting dressed,
getting ready.
Comments