Diane was the kind of friend who made you feel seen. She had a gift, a magnetism that made you want to tell her your deepest thoughts. Her laugh was infectious, and when we laughed to the point of tears running down out cheeks, it could be over some of our most painful moments.
At her memorial of life service, her husband gave the guests a book of his haiku. He had written them to her, and for her, over the course of their relationship, starting when he would leave them on her windshield in their early courting. He told the assembled friends that he had read the courtship poems to her “in toto, the week before she died.” With his permission, I can share a few of his later (post illness) poems here.
This selection speaks to the ineffable partition that exists between life and death. They address the deep grief of separation.
Thank you Gerry Snedaker.
Sleep
Tonight, I couldn’t sleep.
Had a scotch, had a smoke, played guitar.
Wondered where you have gone.
Poof
You were beautifully
dressed. The mortuary transporters
came. Poof, whoosh, you were gone.
Slap Me
I told Sophie that if
I ever tell someone that I’m “fine”
she should just slap me—hard.
Big Fat No
“That would be a big fat
no!” you said to Becky from Hospice.
We smiled and laughed and laughed.
Dark
Sometimes I feel okay.
Sometimes I’m a lump of mush in a
bowl. Lifeless. In the dark.
Paintings
I straighten the paintings
on the wall. Then I straighten them once
more. They all look crooked.
Kind Of Blue
Miles Davis. “Kind of Blue”.
“So What.” I’ll tell you so what. It hurts.
A real big kind of blue.
Bookends
A beginning - an end.
Joys, love, pains and sorrows in between.
Life inside the bookends.
Gone
You are gone. Are you gone?
Gone where? Not far? Not near? Do you know?
I don’t know. I’m confused.
Valentines Day
I will buy you a gift
for Valentines Day even though you
are not here. It’s for me.