7.15.2005 -
Still in my heart . . .

~m

Congrats to our daughter Sarah,
that graduates tomorrow from MGH.
She will start her nursing internship in the ICU at the Newton-Wellesley Hospital in a few weeks.
Pamela and me are just a little bit proud.
Graduation tomorrow morning at the Hynes and dinner tomorrow night at the Tavern in the Square.
It should be an awesome day.
We are so proud of her and all that she’s achieved.
Leaving you with a nurse-inspired poem . . . for our new NURSE

By Jennifer Huff, LPN:

I said goodbye to you today.
In my own quiet way.
A hidden tear was shed.
Tribute to the life you led.

Empty chair, an unspoken reminder of you.
Too soon to be filled by a patient so new.
Numb to the pain of so many goodbyes.
Sorrow hidden, secretly brushing tears from my eyes.

You joined the others who paved the way for you.
The leader, the song-man, the feisty one, too.
The one who decided that he’d just had enough.
Saying farewell to you all has been so tough.

I like to imagine you are all gathered up there.
Playing poker, having feasts, so many stories to share.
No more restrictions on fluid and food.
No longer chained to disease, it is as it should.

Those of us left behind, keep your memory alive.
Working hard every day to help others survive.
Chair no longer empty, a new soul to tend.
Hidden tears suppressed.
A new beginning to the end.

And the angels sang . . .

“Póg mo thóin!”

~m

Was going to see you soon but life got in the way.
Peaceful travels, my dear friend.
I am incredibly sad tonight.
The candle is lit.

~m

There’s a subdued purple crimson suggestion of a new day off to the east and I can’t help but wonder
what today will bring.
It’s yet another pedestrian Monday morning;
another chance to make the pieces somehow fit, a seemingly impossible task.
But there’s always that “what if” that keeps us all steadily on track.

I took a nice long stroll yesterday with my wife through a cemetery right near our house.
I cherish these walks because they set me straight,
keep me sane and burn calories (something my physician loves).
It’s quiet and peaceful and my wife and I consider the many folks there our personal friends.

Over the years, they’ve been privy to our most intimate conversations;
our quandaries and concerns, our aspirations and clandestine dreams.
As we walk and try to somehow figure it all out; this life,
this frantic situation we always find ourselves in.
Most days, we leave the cemetery with more questions than we came in with
making me wonder if that’s the way it’s really supposed to be.

The cemetery is surrounded by water and my wife sees a lone swan off in the distance,
floating silently on the water.
There’s no breeze and the murky water appears to me as black glass; static and dim,
the reflections of indigo sky above screaming of a visual paradox.
So much like our lives, I think.

“I wonder where the other one is.” She says.

“The other one?” I ask.

“Yeah, they always travel in pairs. Like us. That’s the way it is with swans.”

“I didn’t know that,” I say, “I only see one.”

“Me, too,” She says.

My wife scans the area surrounding the pond and seems sad the swan is alone;
an almost bittersweet sentimentality.
Our conversation veers off on another relatively impossible tangent as we continue our walk
around the winding cemetery road,
both of us unconsciously searching for the second swan.

~m

I have a dark side.
I know it, my family knows it, my cats know it, my funeral director knows it.
Years ago I played a club located in the middle of a major hotel.
One weekend there was a mortuary fair, if you will.
All things death related.
There were many items that piqued my interest: wound filler, blood tubes, various (uncomfortable looking) clamps,
goggles (obviously), hypo trocars, powder blowers, toe tags and my personal favorite . . .  viscera bags.
Jesus Krispies, the language of death is amazing.
Depressing, yes.
Amazing?
Even more so.
I dug this stuff up for any funeral director that may happen to pay my blog a visit.
This is 10 shades of whack, IMHO.
Want a sterling silver trocar pendant?
Your quest has ended. Click here .
Being a cigar smoker, I am all about the ashes.
Find me a nice cat shaped urn and I’ll be happy.
Forever.

~m

[photo courtesy of Kelly]

I’ve been mulling over in my mind the past several weeks wondering if I could
crystallize my many thoughts into one fine black point.
The little voice inside my head just said, “Are you really serious?”
Since the night I wrote ‘Boxes’ my world has changed dramatically.
On one level, there is this welcome sense of relief regarding the final end for my father and his long fought ordeal; another level acknowledges a deep sadness knowing and accepting the fact that he is truly gone.

I took a ride yesterday afternoon to North Cemetery where my mother and father are now buried.
It was unseasonably warm with a cobalt-blue sky, a Cape Cod-like sea breeze and enough
brilliant sunshine to make me start daydreaming about the summer months ahead.
This place where the earth now wraps its arms securely around my parents has become
hallowed ground for many reasons.
For me, it is a tangible point of communication, a visible portal to somewhere I’ve never been,
a place where special things happen and are accepted for all that they are.
It was no different yesterday as I stood staring at the rose granite bench bearing the names:
Virginia A. & Walter M.
Best friends, I thought.
The engravers had paid a visit and finished the stone.
The circle was now complete.
I was alone in the cemetery and sat down on the sun-warmed bench, stretching my legs out into the sunshine.
To my right was the small flag stuck in a holder that now marks my father as an American veteran.
I was sitting for less than a minute when the wind picked up.
The tiny flag began waving gently and touched my arm.
“Hey, Dad,” I said, smiling at the thought.
The flag continued to wave, touching my arm, my soul, my heart.
It was sitting there that I began to finally accept the finality of these past few weeks.
The stone was done, seeds were planted and tears rolled down my cheeks watering the dry earth below me.
As I stood up, the breeze ceased and the flag drooped down.
I kissed the palm of my hand and placed it on the warm rose granite bench that now held their names.
“You’re finally home, Dad,” I said to an empty cemetery.
I got in my truck and drove away a different man then when I originally came in and
for the first time in many years, something felt right.

~m

In the deafening silence of 12
I stare into the shiny anthracite eyes of midnight and wonder about
the pointlessness of it all;
the means to an end, the ying and yang of it all,  black splashes of time that seem to
ebb and flow
washing away the truths I once knew,
an innocence I once possessed,
a faith that now longs for the simplest of me,
the purity in this long begotten soul of mine
My harbour of solace and hope is now closed to a raging sea
I toss and turn, praying for some kind of rescue instead of praying for
mercy . . .
mercy, mercy me
Maybe the reality is that I am truly broken, maybe I’ll just anchor far away from the rocks on shore
but maybe I’ll just drift back and away, and away
wait until 12 turns to 3 for me,
all for the stygian likes of me
Maybe . . .

The following is a Public Service Announcement that was done in the UK.
It is graphic, violent and bloody.
I post this for anyone with children driving these days.
I have three daughters and they will undoubtedly watch this.
If it saves one life, it will have been well worth the post.
And if you think for one minute that this isn’t happening, you are KIDDING yourself.
Talk to your children.
God only knows how much I love mine.
Technology giveth and technology taketh away.
Please don’t let it be the latter.
Please view this video with caution.

I began reading the new Natalie Goldberg book  ‘Old Friend from Far Away’ a few days ago.
It’s a book custom-tailored for writers of memoir.
So far the book is quite good (like all of her books).
Page 14 has a prompt that I’ve decided to turn into a post.
The chapter is quite short:

“Die”
Tell me what you will miss when you die.

When I die there will be many things that I will miss.
This list went on for quite a few pages but I’ve chosen an abbreviated version for your perusal.
If I included food you’d be here for a few days.
I mostly chose things from the category ‘matters of the heart’.
Feel free to steal this as a ‘meme’.
For you writers visiting, it’s a wonderful exercise. Do it.
Even if you don’t consider yourself a writer, it’s worth your time.
You can look at some of the things that really make your life worthwhile.
Here I go.

I will miss:

-Whispers in the dark
-Pamela’s eyes, voice, face and beautiful soul
-hearing the phrase, “I love you, Daddy,” whispered in my ear
-my three beautiful girls
-the sound of little footsteps coming down the stairs on Christmas morning
-my sister, my twin, the other part of my very soul
-Caitlin’s smile
-Ryan’s loveable way (and awesome jumpshot)
-Billy’s laugh
-All the people I truly love (if I’ve talked to you in the past year, consider yourself on this list)
-a warm and gentle rain
-the silent beauty of falling snow (yeah, I wrote that)
-the sound of surf at the Cape
-the smell of freshly cut grass in late spring
-stars (especially the constellation Orion, someday possibly the Southern Cross)
-my cats purring
-Cuban cigars
-Guinness (or any fairly decent dark beer like Porter or Stout)
-Makers’ Mark
-writing with a nice fountain pen on some fine quality paper
-the feeling of creating
-entering ‘the Zone’  (artists of all kinds know about this one)
-music (playing and listening)
-my piano
-weekend phone calls to a country far, far away with two incredibly special people
-memories of the Camp
-Bermuda
-the aroma of an apple pie baked by my grandmother from summer’s long ago
-Blue Cheese
-Bill Hicks, Denis Leary, Sam Kinnison, George Carlin, Lewis Black and Dave Chapelle
-sunsets
-reading
-most importantly, my blog

And yes, I will dearly miss sex and exceptional breasts.
I’m not a freak.
Truthfully, what will you miss?