Dearly Departed

I knew you were tired
Cooped up and shackled down by
Illnesses and old bones and tired muscles
And nerve endings that mutinied
Making your body
The Bounty in flesh
You smiled
You spoke peace
You frowned on weakness
You lived a long life
You served your clan
You made the world your clan
Grams, I miss you
Tanky said many a time
That you wouldn't leave
Until your mission was done
As your Savior spoke before you
On the schedule of His operation,
"It is finished."
We're ready to love
As a family that misses you
And we will stand together
We'll be OK
Just you wait and see
I miss you, Grams
But I'm glad you can finally
Rest.

Gladis Maine, my "Grams," passed last night in Los Angeles at Kindred Hospital at 9:30pm. She fought through illness and defied a doctor's grim prediction that she "wouldn't last another two weeks"...NEARLY EIGHT YEARS AGO. She's finally pain-free. She is finally FREE.

Photo: "Sleeping Woman" by Henri Matisse
Photo Reference URL: www.cavalierdaily.com

Something About Mother's Day...

I remember a time when my mother could have sung this song to my father. Richard--the name of a king--spent most of his adult life showing himself an emotional pauper. His relationship with my mother deteriorated years ago to the point that she decided to think of him as a silly younger brother so that she could "keep from hurting him." Did he learn from the almost poetic sadness of Mom's decision? No, he did not. In fact, he continued to have horribly wrecked relationships (including a marriage that blessed me with Nicole and Nicholas aka "Twin Terrors"--my youngest brother and sister) until he died at the ripe old age of 38.

That was not a typo. My father ascended (or descended, if you know his life's uglier moments and feel the negatives outweighed the positives) from this Earth one month after his 38th birthday. He was a man who could make a grand and entertaining entrance to any affair, and his exit was no less shocking: a simultaneous heart attack and massive stroke killed him before he landed on the kitchen floor face-down and alone. The pain he felt at the onset of the two-fold life-robbing attack was etched on his face; my last sight of him was a picture of his suffering (Funerals don't count. There, you see the mortician's handiwork alone; your loved one is replaced by a re-creation of the former masked in cake makeup and massaged facial features.). He was gone, and I was left holding his memory and all the anger of his sudden departure.

Mother's Day was beautiful. Father's Day is ahead. My thoughts will pass. Hmm...then what?