The Yale Journal for Humanities in Medicine
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jeff@marksman.net
***
I sit silent
brooding
lost somewhere in the syntax
of stage four metastasized
solitaire fills the screen
solitary fills the picture
lost an apt description
She sits
somewhere else
sometimes in the same room
always in the same house
often on a different planet
sharing the solitude in silence
not knowing quite what to say
we are in this together
and so alone
as we hold hands in the long and quiet night
In another room
in a different town
my parents sit
imagining a harvest moon
grieve what has not yet come to pass
what may never be
cry my tears for me in advance
unmindful that it will be as it must
In another place
several other places
my children do not sit
my grandson bringing smiles to youthful faces
or so I would it be
and sometimes in the quiet times
think of me
send a kind thought or tentative words in my direction
We are several miles
and galaxies apart
In my town
in other towns in my world
people pause sometimes
and send white light toward me
and newspaper clipping of miracles
that I might see the possibilities
it is enough
It is enough to know you care
that I was
that you are there
It is enough
to wake me
to shake the dust of slumber from my eyes
to give me hope
to will me toward another sun rise
I fear I may awaken slowly
as a bear from hibernation
to find you vanished
chased away by my fear
or yours
discouraged by the great gulf of my sorrow
ever widened by my wish to be the island
no man was meant to be
If this be so love
if this be the thought friend
forgive me
your love is
was
will be
more than enough
to sustain me
does sustain me
to nourish me
does nourish me
always and forever
it is
was
will be enough
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***
We’re all going on the same journey
some of us just get a chance to pack first
or is it unpack?
We don’t realize at the beginning
we’re working our way toward the finish light
or is it line?
It’s something that happens along the way
sometimes
sometimes it never occurs to us
even and unless someone leaves
to begin his journey
leaving us somewhere on the path
It’s like two journeys really
the path we travel
carve
amble or race along
plunge headlong
or sidle along
not bothering to taste the nectar
afraid to feel the wind at our face
or laughing in the face of impossible storms
and the path that marks the end
and to some
the true beginning
It seems impossible to pack for the second
unlikely one would need a toothbrush
a change of underwear
or formal attire
Some say it’s deeds of loving kindness
we must have stored somewhere
or a pure heart
Some that we must be born again
and I don’t think they are playing with words
others that’s it simply another beginning
a fresh start on a new path
another turn of the wheel
in never ending journey
Everything from virgins sweet
to burning fire awaits the weary traveler
though I sometimes wonder
what do the women get
especially the virgins
something in pink?
something secret and special?
and if it’s only men on the right and left hand
where they sit?
Whatever book one swears by
adheres to
or violates the tenants of
there is still the matter of the journey
the first trip
the one where we feel we matter
after all
who are we in the after all?
Some just take a knapsack
a backpack
carry memories and joy as they travel
plucking this and that from here and there
planting smiles like Johnny Appleseed
others begin with Gucci luggage
keep it under lock and key
have porters carry the burden
pull and pry prizes from the earth
and those around them
It doesn’t matter really
they’re traveling the same highway
making a different pilgrimage
to the same city
It’s those whose journey ends before they arrive
joggers dropping from the path
in the prime of life
children and innocents
caught in the cross fire
of somebody’s agenda
that I would cry for
they had no time to pack
or unpack
no warning shot across the bow
The old and the slow
the diagnosed and dying
we have been given a gift
the gift of time
not
that we use it well
plant smiles and apple trees on every corner
but we could
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Published: May 31, 2007