Grandma Olga died at 04:00 this morning.
When my great Aunt Anna died, I wrote this poem, on the way back from Murdo, South Dakota in the late winter. I want to include the poem here, because I feel the same way at the death of Olga, losing all contact to the 2nd generation of my family. I don't think there are any left now that are 2 generations older than I am. I had lunch today at the Oaks with Sharon and Rachel.
(It was after I posted my poem that I got a call from my mother this evening, telling me that I will be a pall bearer at my Grandmother's funeral also.)
2010
The Land of Her
There is very little time
to be young
when what's left
in the hourglass
is just dust
shooken up and
turned on end
restraining
though very few grains
remain to be keen listening
and quick reading
or by choice
slow
moving
there is too much
sifting beneath us.
I was told by my mother
years ago
in the land of her
that people were
living for something ethereal
thinner
than butter on bread or so
many dancing angels on
pins and needles above
the flu
season when my head
was equal to the huge
red cylinder
of a far away
candle-stick
but my eyes were right on
a circus of
lions and monkeys and elephants
and birds and what-nots
swirling in parade behind
a blue dot
which was me or
maybe the spell
that had me
shaking and tucked in
the orange and green
flowered sickbed and I
thought it meant death
with the animals
leading me, if only
so pretty
but
time has
little
left for the taking
as glass loses
sand escapes
heaven
hauled
from six feet under
I was told
I was a pall bearer
I carried the bier
and in it was my family
above all
I felt part of that
family mechanically lower
into the ground
without sound except
falling earth from above
dumping down to fill
the void
as skies turn to dust
the little life that is left
sifts the air.