Only A Dog: In Honor of Sheela

Hiking,

the manzanita trees,

wet with welcomed rain,

the earth in singing relief,

this spring,

the streams are full.

 

My sister goes hiking now,

alone,

her friend,

a dog named Sheela,

has left for other lands,

places we don’t always believe in.

 

Has she gone to the spirit world?

Her love and loyalty for my sister,

so clear,

so deep,

transcending death?

 

Will my sister’s heart,

so broken now,

ever find enough solace?

 

She was only a dog.

 

Only a dog,

whose friendship took my sister high,

into trails that lifted her soul,

when she needed it most.

 

This grief,

brings on others,

the power of its unleashed force,

abundant.

 

There will be healing.

There has to be,

but it won’t come easily.

For my sister and Sheela

shared that mysterious bond,

that took them beyond

explanations

and definitions.

 

The streams are full.

My sister will go alone now.

And if she believes,

Sheela will be running alongside her,

among the manzanita trees,

wet with welcomed rain.

 

Run on, dear Sheela.

 

Run on.

Hugo and Sassafras

 Puppies.

And there we were,

into the woods,

the brook,

the meadow,

our hearts overflowing into the open wild, 

together,

 in search of nothing more,

than what we could discover,

together.

 

Then,

I let them go,

to other hands and hearts,

as life does,

they went that way,

I went another.

 

In stories and visits,

I saw them thriving:

eight years of glory.

 

Two phone calls,

within months of each other, 

genetic balls of cells,

carrying them both away.

 

Buried now, 

near each other.

 

Those of us who loved them,

thoroughly,

in deep,

gifted in that loving.

 

I see them still:

puppies,

into the woods,

the brook,

the meadow,

and someday,

I will follow.

 

                                                        Hugo and Sassafras

Among Them

What I would have said to you,

is how magnificent,

your mind,

your heart,

the way you see,

the way you feel life,

laughter like raining crystals,

the way you narrow it down,

to an essence.

 

Your eyes,

keen and bright,

seeking nothing more,

than the purest of light,

truth,

leading to love.

 

Nothing wasted,

there wasn’t time,

never enough,

and when you died,

forty years ago today,

my heart grabbed hold

of what was left of you,

and now,

awake early again,

in the deep morning tide of bird song,

I stop to listen,

and imagine,

your voice among them.

My Sister’s Cat: In Memoriam: Smokey

Just a cat.

 

Long-haired and gray,

no markings of distinction,

really.

 

Smokey.

And like his name,

ethereal,

near,

and then slipping away,

but always there,

somewhere.

 

Just a cat.

 

Appearing,

in noble fashion,

as if called,

as if needed,

his smooth countenance,

softly reaching,

caressing,

soothing.

 

Just a cat.

 

And now,

really gone.

 

We don’t know why,

or how, 

cats

find their way into

the tender holds

of vulnerable,

primal,

and intimate grace.

We open to them,

without thinking.

They enter,

without demanding.

They breath

alongside us,

and like smoke,

sweet smoke of sage,

or prairie grass,

their breath becomes,

part of the air we breathe.

 

What a cat…………….

 

Smokey.

 

 

My First Sister

 

I don’t remember

exactly how I felt

when Katie came.

Barely two,

I am sure,

that suspicion

mingled with joy,

joy winning out.

 

Ever since,

Katie stays close,

although she lives

too many miles away.

 

I was cruel,

when we were young,

the teasing I inflicted,

maybe normal,

as sister fare,

but I am still

ashamed.

 

We’ve come through

the deepest loss,

sharing grief

that sisters know,

daughters, too.

And when we say goodbye,

after yearly reunions,

I’m always blasted by

the void left

by her absence:

there’s never enough time

any more.

 

Katie

gives without glitter,

without noise,

her wisdom necessary.

As I rant,

she affirms.

As I cry,

she allows.

As I laugh,

she comes with me,

and that is when

I must be remembering,

in my bones,

being two,

discovering that,

(once past the suspicion),

Katie,

was going to be,

my first sister.

Happy Birthday, Katie O!

Our Mother, Gone: Part II; Thank You, Julie Andrews

Our mother,

gone.

 

Then,

there she was:

a singing sister,

with spun gold hair,

tender blue eyes,

and

superior sewing skills.

 

Never depressed.

Never doubtful.

Never duplicitous.

 

Forever distant,

Forever perfect.

 

We sat and watched her sing

and smile,

from the huge screen,

over and over and over.

Dad obliged,

taking us to the movie theater,

a dozen times.

It was clear,

we needed some kind

of mother.

 

There were no photos

of mop-top boys

on my wall,

Mom.

 

The void set by

your disability,

the one that

you would never

overcome,

the one that

destroyed your

ability to love us,

had to be filled.

 

And it was.

Not entirely.

That perfect mother

would always be

two-dimensional.

 

But,

I believe,

Julie Andrews,

helped us through,

to the other side

of

our longing.

 

The Stirring of Tears

I can not stop

the stirring of tears

that will come.

They are for her,

the one who is dying,

this little dog,

with brown eyes dimming.

 

And they are also for

all that has come before

this dying,

this goodbye.

 

My life,

crested with goodbyes.

The pattern of grief,

a map

that I have followed,

leading me here,

 

To this little dog,

with just a  flicker of time together.

Now,

our goodbye.

 

When the crying ends,

smiling  into the grief,

bright colors of love felt deeply,

for that little dog,

and everyone,

who has come before her.

Who She Would Have Been

She would have been fifty-seven today,

and when I try to imagine

who she would have been,

I can only see an eighteen-year old woman,

about to set out for

who she would have been.

 

And that is where,

I must leave her.

 

The Windy Waters

by Sharon Elizabeth Ortlip

 

The windy waters dance at night

In circles by the shore.

They whisper to the trees in sight,

“Come join the ocean floor!

 

The sky is wild and full of life,”

The waters tell the trees.

“Forget your many years of strife

And feel the easy breeze.

 

Lift the roots that hold you down,

For they are tired and worn.

Let the sun become your crown

To hide you from the storm.”

 

With ancient grace and peaceful pride

The bounded figures know

That with the eagles of the tide

They are not free to go.

 

To leave what they have always been

And blow it to the sea

Will give the trees a way to swim

But will not make them free.

 

The windy waters dance at night

And the white moon seems to know,

The ocean can teach the trees to laugh,

But never how to grow.

Watching as You Love

Watching as you love,

clear  water love,

your quiet gaze,

as your children,

grown and soaring,

bathe in its buoyant warmth.

 

Seeing that I

don’t know that

way of loving.

For grief has always

determined love’s aim:

love means loss.

 

I see now,

deeper than ever,

I have the chance

to love,

with grief illuminating,

not directing,

honoring all whom I have

loved and lost.

 

I already know

how to love,

with a fire

clear and warm and true.

 

But dear grief,

it’s time

to let me go.

 

To My Sisters Who Got Away

To you,

my sisters who got away,

I hope that you are space,

opened wide to great expanses,

that the energy you once were,

is free

and wild,

becoming whatever forms you inhabit,

reindeer,

candles,

songs.

 

To you,

my sisters,

I hope that sometimes

you travel

close,

really close

to my heart.