Kitchen Ghosts with Glenda Funk
Welcome to Day 2 of the February Open Write. We are so happy you are here, however you choose to be present. If you know what to do, carry on, if you are not sure, begin by reading the inspiration and mentor poem, then scroll to the comment section to post your poem. Please respond to at least three other poems in celebration of words, phrases, ideas, and craft that speak to you. Click here for more information on the Open Write.
Glenda is an NBCT with an MA in English literature. She taught English and speech 38 years and worked as an adjunct instructor for Idaho State University and the College of Southern Idaho before retiring in August 2019. As part of the NEA Better Lesson Master Teacher Project, Glenda developed a full-year curriculum for teaching seniors, which is free on the Better Lesson website. She’s thrilled to call herself a published poet with poems featured in
Bridge the Distance and Rhyme & Rhythm: Poems for Student Athletes, for which she owes Sarah a huge debt of gratitude. Glenda blogs at https://evolvingenglishteacher.blogspot.com
Inspiration
Perfect Black, Crystal Wilkinson’s brilliant collection of poetry and narrative nonfiction, explores Wilkinson’s Kentucky roots, her family relationships, the racism inherent in American culture, and the trauma and beauty of being a black woman. Each time I return to Wilkinson’s work, I find more to love, more inspiration. Wilkinson’s work has been both cathartic and inspirational to me in recent months because I’ve had some new challenges with my vision that spark memories of my father whose diabetes caused him to go blind when I was a young girl. Some of my own memories center on cooking for my father. Others speak to the unique experience of being a girl with a blind father.
As part of my NCTE 21 session “Taking Interpretive Risks: Creating Antiracist Classrooms through Critical Literary Theory,” I included some of Wilkinson’s work. I want to continue celebrating this Afrilachian writer here, so I invite you to think about the ghosts who appear to you and the ways you learn from and celebrate the lives of those who have passed on, those who now visit us in our memories.
I reached out to Ms. Wilkinson about featuring her writing in this space and am including her poem “Kitchen Ghosts” as our mentor text with permission. The opening word “Sometimes” offers a good starting point. I love the way repetition of this word emphasizes both the occasionality of a ghost’s–a memory’s– appearance.
Kitchen Ghosts
by Crystal Wilkinson
Sometimes the dead appear in my kitchen. I feel
my grandmother’s hand patting mine when i make cake.
Her head shakes No when i don’t add enough eggs or
too much butter. Sometimes she laughs & claps when
the yeast rolls rise. She cuts her eyes & sucks her teeth
when my dress is too short. Sometimes the dead just stand
in my office when the emails glare, when the boss needs one more
report, when the words i write won’t come.
Glenda’s Poem
Reading My Father
My father watched
his children through
outstretched hands:
ten fingers touching our
hair—assessing our height—
reading noses & interpreting
curved lips—
measuring skirt length as
i stood beside his chair on
school days. He read my
skin like braille, interpreting each
plot line of my adolescence,
sometimes only to annotate
the story with a raised
backhand. There was no
violence in this gesture–
his way of seeing past
eclipsed orbs occluding my
blue & white sailor dress. Then
he dropped anchor, lowered the
boom & sent me tumbling
below deck, a castaway—
His curled fingers deciphered
each child: son, daughters
nieces & nephews. My father
greeted them with his donald
duck “whatcha doing” before
pushing his upper teeth into space
past his upturned lip & into
their sight-lines.
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers. Oh, and a note about drafting: Since we are writing in short bursts, we all understand (and even welcome) the typos and partial poems that remind us we are human and that writing is always becoming. If you’d like to invite other teachers to write with us, tell them to subscribe.
Will you participate in #VerseLove 2022?
April is National Poetry Month. The Ethical ELA community creates a celebration of all that poetry does for our hearts and minds by offering daily writing inspiration and a supportive space to discover what happens when we write poetry all month long.
Piano Keys
When I was younger,
I never understood why
my mother paced back and forth
as I played the keys.
Back and forth,
back and forth.
Corrections come
laced in poison
and drowned in sugar.
Maybe this is why
I don’t understand me now;
it’s almost time to start.
One more minute.
Back and forth,
back and forth.
I hear your inner voice:
You can do it better.
You can do it now.
But I can’t.
My hands are frozen
and I’m helpless to
start the work in front of me.
Back and forth,
back and forth.
Why can’t I play
without you pacing;
Why can’t I play?
What a great theme to write to, Glenda: thank you! Loved both Crystal’s and your poems today. Capturing the sense of touch in a poem was arresting, and your poem painted such a beautiful picture of your dad. Here’s my (rough) contribution.
Here’s to all the godless heathens
Trying to make a go of it
In kitchens
Like blank slates.
Clean floors on which to spill
Ill-measured sugar.
Backsplashes
On which to splash
Lidless, roiling sauces.
Range fans
Sick with ingesting
Black smoke from
Burnt meals.
Here’s to us
Who had to make our own way.
Who came up through young years
With Tuna Helper
Chipped beef on toast
Cheese and mayo sandwiches
And McDonalds as the Holy Grail
Of meals
To emerge,
As those before us did,
struggling,
Into the sunlight of our
young motherhoods:
Ashamed and grateful
Accusing and understanding
But willing and positioned
To create our own
offerings.
Wendy, your poem nourishes my soul, Last night I roasted garlic that leaked into the oven and caused some smoke. We did some upgrades on our kitchen in 2020, and I’m constantly cleaning the new sink to keep it nice. Your poem resonates: the chipped beef we made in 7th grade home ec, Tuna Helper, etc, I feel this poem deeply.
I wish I could say that my ghosts were warm memories
Benign
Casper the Friendly variety ghosts
Instead, a crystallized memory of you yelling
Incessantly
Tirelessly,
Regardless of my apologies
Contriteness
And utter youthful regret
A memory of dad telling me
About your drinking
And how the alcohol seemed to make you
Unable to stop the tirades
I just wish we hadn’t been so annoying to you
When you were cooking
Or folding laundry
Or resting
You preferred Days of Our Lives.
To our questions and chatter.
I believe you gave up too much to be our mother,
and we were your constant reminders of it.
But I don’t really know.
What hurt you so violently
That you had no room
For love?
I am sad for it.
I am sad for little girl you.
I am sad for little girl me.
I am sad for my boys that I am wounded and broken
Desperately attempting to mend this ship as it sails.
I love you.
Please remember to breathe.
Please know I forgave you a long time ago.
For the berating
and the belittling.
I forgave you for caring more about the food at Thanksgiving
Than my heart.
I forgave you for wanting people to think you were warm and kind and generous
So much so that you had no room left for me.
All that is left of that tyrant from childhood
Is a specter,
One that only scares me
When I see it in myself.
Oh, Merry, this went straight to my heart. Thank you.
Thank you Wendy. So kind of you to comment.
Merry,
Like you I had an alcoholic mom, but she didn’t cook, so my ghost stories are like yours in the yelling and belittling that is so difficult to recover from and that haunts us as mothers. Your poem is heart wrenching, but I want you to know you are not alone in these feelings,
Hi Glenda – thank you for your response. There is something about poetry that pulls stories out of me that I didn’t realize needed to be voiced. I appreciate you responding.
His Silence
By: Emily Yamasaki
Sometimes your silence
Is a chasm
All of us try to avoid
Could it be
The tension
The temper
Was really a guise for
Uncertainty
Fear
Dad’s silence
Is sometimes a yearning
For someone else to make the first move
Emily, “tension” and “temper” are wonderful alliterative words adding to the tautness in you poem. I sense the strain in this silence. It’s so hard when a parent’s presence creates such atmosphere in a home. I’m awed by how much we learn about one another through poetry. Poems such as yours remind me to think about others’ silent secrets and to be more careful.
So beautifully encapsulated and captured here. This realization makes me wish I could go back to all those times Dad gave us kids ‘the look’ and just reach across that chasm to him. A sweet reminder that dads are people, too.
Emily – That “silent chasm”… oh boy, is that ever the echo chamber of judgment! I’m struck by the wisdom of seeing these reactions as the guise for fear and uncertainty. You have so deftly captured the impact of parental judging… or surely what felt like judgment. Yet, the very act of reflection lets you tease out the fear that parents bear beneath that smothering shroud of silence. I really appreciate this poem! Thank you. Susie
Emily, that last stanza! Hit very close to home. This was beautiful. Thank you.
Glenda, thank you for the great prompt. I’ve been thinking a lot about all my family members who also live(d) in this desert, so your prompt spoke to me. I just wrote that stream of consciousness poem in the previous comment and forgot to mention yours and Crystal Wilkinson’s. I really like hers. “cut her eyes & sucks her teeth” was a great line.
It was really lovely getting to know your father through your poem. Beautiful. You really explored his blindness and how it formed how he did things with your perfect word choice. I like the use of the word “sight” in the last line. And I felt the warmth of his presence when you described his donald duck voice, and his moving his dentures.
Oh, Denise, I’m notoriously bad about acknowledging both the prompt and mentor poem. I need to fix that and strive to be more gracious like you and Stacey.
Sometimes in this desert
where my grandpa and grandma lived
in separate houses
and Aunt Thelma fed the road runners
little pills of raw hamburger
and Uncle Arthur and his donkey
mined for gold
and Uncle Guy and Uncle Andrew
watched sports and drank beer
and my cousins made houses of art
and my sister still puts puzzles together
juggling eight houses
decorated and equipped
for weekend hikers
I wonder what I will do and become
and what legacy I will leave
for the young ones
who watch me
Denise, you pack a lot of family history into one sentence. I don’t think you need worry about your legacy. The young ones will remember your service and kind generosity. I have to tell you, I think about you there near Joshua Tree often, and this poem makes me wonder how many of your family I passed unwittingly on our trip there last December. Knowing this family history through your poem makes the world a little smaller to me, which I love.
The imagery embedded throughout reveals admiration and yearning. I, too, ask myself this question: “I wonder what I will do and become”
Last night I startled one
breath from sleep.
My heart punched my throat like a fist.
The recoil sent
electric whispers
buzzing across my skin.
In the space behind my
eyes I saw the culprit: a small regret
pulsing hot pretending
like a pufferfish
to be bigger and more
threatening than before.
Holy imagery, Allison! Your images are relentless. Regret is such a strong emotion.
Allison,
I feel your poem in my bones! Those small regrets that fester and force themselves into our subconscious– ugh! I love the sensory lushness of the “electric whispers buzzing across my skin” and “pulsing hot pretending like a pufferfish.”
Oh, Allison, I can definitely relate to waking to regret…feeling it “like a fist”. The physicality of your poem is striking, and the way you end this with a simile adds an incredible punch to the gut, feeling the regret becoming even more threatening. I loved your word choices throughout your poem…”recoil” “electric whispers” “pulsing” “hot pretending” all of these carry a heavy weight and build on the emotion. Regret is a ghost! Outstanding poem! Wishing you a more restful sleep full of peace! Hugs!
Oh, how those regrets grow. Wow, Allison, you have captured that so much in this powerful poem. “punched my throat like a fist” “electric whispers” “pulsing hot”
Allison, I love the comparison of regret to a pufferfish. They do swell up, those regrets, to dominate space where they have no place residing. BTW: You might find Daniel Pink’s new book “The Power of Regret” interesting and helpful.
Whoa, girlie! This is a jolt of a poem! The images are like that fist in the throat! Yeow! “Electric whispers/buzzing”… perfect word choices. I’m tellin’ ya, you captured precisely what jolts me from the cusp of sleep… a regret… some damned thing I didn’t do right, and there I am in a sweat, eyes wide open, and torn. And then the “pufferfish” is the perfect metaphor… all swelled up like that regret, that inevitably deflated into the real world of who-really-gives-a-rip. SUCH a perfect poem… you did one heck of a job with the ghosting last night!! Wowza! Susie
Visceral. I feel this. I will now imagine those pangs as pufferfish—how perfect
Sometimes I have to remind myself
That I am my own person,
Not a new copy of the women
Before me, asserting their
Independence by ending
A marriage and instead of
Floundering, thriving.
So when I think of how long
I resisted leaving because I
Wanted to be different, to break
The generational tradition,
I now realize I was blinded by
The wrong kind of determination.
Choices shouldn’t be made to
Meet a challenge or maintain
A status quo–they should inspire,
Ignite, increase confidence and
Defy antiquated expectations.
I am forever grateful for those
Wonderfully strong women who
Lived for their own truths,
Paving a path I wasn’t destined
To take, but chose for myself.
Cara — This last stanza —
I am forever grateful for those
Wonderfully strong women who
Lived for their own truths,
Paving a path I wasn’t destined
To take, but chose for myself.
so powerful! I’m glad you chose your own path!
I love how you’ve flipped those women from being those who give up to those who are strong. You are your own strong person partly because of them, but I suspect mostly because of who you are. Beautiful poem.
This poem is one of such strength. You come full circle, to your own path. Beautiful poem.
Cara, this is such an honest and open poem. I love how you brought the message home in those final two lines.
Cara, thank you for the honesty and truth in your poem today. You have done some soul-searching and reflection, and it shows here. “grateful for those / wonderfully strong women” indeed. Well done.
Cara, I’m awed by the epiphanies you reveal in your poem. I can relate to wanting to break the divorce cycle and understand leaving is hard, is based on choosing truth. Bravo for having the courage to be strong and advocate for yourself.
These lines spoke to me today: “I now realize I was blinded by / The wrong kind of determination” I’ve had similar a-ha moments. Wonderful poem
I Wonder
By Mo Daley
2-20-22
Sometimes I wonder
if seven-year-old me intuited that
that morning-
the one where you sat at the table
on that eerily quiet Saturday morning
before the house awoke
and gently touched my elbow
with your warm coffee spoon
to remind me, “Elbows off the table!”
with your stick figure arms poking out of
the plain white tee
and the zinc oxide under your nose
for relief from the never-ending bloody noses
as the white blood cells wreaked havoc in your marrow-
would be my last memory of you
One sentence but such a powerful one. I hate cancer. My dad died from it too and it’s awful to watch your loved one waste away. Beautiful poem Mo.
Mo — Wow! Just wow. What a vivid and haunting memory.
Mo—“with your warm coffee spoon”. This, and all the other images are simply visceral. And the last line—wow. Powerful!
Mo, the warm coffee spoon on the elbow–wow. The detail is so original and so minor–which makes it so powerful. Thank you for this aching memory.
Mo, you have packed so much emotion, so much nostalgia, so much grief into one sentence, and then you give us that gut punch at the end. This is powerful and heavy.
Oh my gosh, Mo! This is so raw and visually compelling. The arms, the warm spoon, and the cruel reality of a disease that ravages both the body and the images we carry forever after. This is truly a poignant gut-wrenching poem. If I could touch your elbow this morning, it would be to let you know, I’m here and hold you dear. Love, Susie
Glenda,
Thank you for your inspirations and beautiful poetry and thank you for introducing me to another wonderful poet.
There is the heady scent of your perfume,
slightly spicy with a hint of jasmine
you are brushing your long, springy brown hair
you are curling your eyelashes
applying lipstick, preparing for a night out with dad
and
there is music. Always music.
I can still hear The Carpenter’s playing and
you singing along with Karen
“Rainy days and Mondays always get me down”
Sometimes I cry when I hear that song
There is crushed garlic roasting on pizza
with your homemade spaghetti sauce
and
there are cinnamon and nutmeg filled pies
with a perfectly flaky crust that to this day
I haven’t been able to replicate
There is chocolate chip cookie dough and you
are offering me a spoon
Time passes
There is a sweet smell daffodils on the table
sunlight streams through the windows of our kitchen
you sit next to me at the table asking about my day
There are our walks together
sometimes there is much to say
and other times nothing at all
because you always listen even
to my silence
Time Passes
There are phone calls, sometimes
daily, when I dump my
mama worries, “Why doesn’t he stop crying?”
“Why is he always spitting up?
“Why won’t he sleep?”
you console
assure me that this will pass
Time passes
There are the days when you wish
your teenage grandchildren would
come visit more
but you understand when they say they
are so busy with their lives
Always a phone call away
Always a phone call away
You always listen
Time passes
Now
I won’t hear your voice if I call
to tell you about my day
to tell you about your grandchildren
Instead I speak to silence
Imagine your voice and
listen for you
Time passes
Tammi, what a loving tribute to a loving relationship that has stood the test of time. You’ve done a great job of showing how things change yet stay the same.
Tammi— I am in tears. Time passes. I speak to silence… so much love here.
Goodness. I feel like I knew your mom after reading this poem. I understand this feeling. The day my dad passed away I wanted to show him something and remembered I couldn’t. That hits hard. I loved your poem. My favorite structural choice you made where when you said:
and
there is music.
I just really liked the “and” where you put it.
Tammi, your mom sounds like a wonderful person. Your micro stories in each stanza makes me long to know her and form a vision of her in my mind. I love the lines “you always listen even / to my silence.” I saw a story on CBS Sunday Morning (I think) about people “calling” their loved ones who have passed. There’s an old rotary phone in the woods. It’s hanging on a tree, and they go to the phone and talk into the receiver. They say it comforts. I think it might be something you might want to try.
Glenda, this prompt has haunted me (haha) all day long. At first I thought I had no ghosts to write about; later they all came to visit. I was moved by the way you wrote about your father. The lines “He read my/ skin like braille, interpreting each/
plot line of my adolescence” really spoke to me, as did the “annotation.”
Here’s my attempt in honor of a friend.
Sometimes I can feel her watching me. She is
still 21, giggling with Trinh in the TCBY while I wait in line.
She turns away, maybe because my best friend is dating
her ex or maybe because she has to leave. Sometimes she is still
passing the ball back to me on the soccer field, give and go.
Sometimes her green eyes and wide smile
haunt my mourning. She leans in and whispers, “Remember,
when he killed me, we were not friends.”
Amanda, wow, this is a deeply moving piece! I didn’t expect the end at all. Chills!
Amanda, I’m so happy to find you here this evening. Your poem evokes memories of a high school friend who died young. I’ve never learned what happened. No one seems to know. Holy moly, that last line is haunting and perplexing. Is this a literal or metaphorical killing?
Amanda, your last line is haunting, and jolting! It made me go back and read the poem several times. It is gripping!
All I can say is “Wow and wow!” I was reading your poem and relating to every word because my best friend (since age 5) passed away last August. Every line spoke to me until the last haunting line. My friend would have whispered “Remember when it killed me, I still loved you.”
Amanda, Wow, the fresh details of your friendship is striking. I understand those awkward dating situations, but your end is such a shock. I am pondering who was not friends at the end though. She wasn’t friends with you or the one who killed her. Losing friends is so difficult, but to lose them through such a violent way seems doubly horrific. Thanks for sharing such a powerful poem. Peace!
Wow, Amanda! This is a haunting poem and that last line packs a punch and leaves me pondering.
Wow Amanda, that is a deep piece! Your descriptions about her giggling in TCBY and then that haunting memory, “She leans in and whispers, “Remember, when he killed me, we were not friends.” sends chills down my spine!
Wow.
Glenda, your poem is incredibly moving. I am particularly touched by the way you describe your father greeting his nieces, nephews, and children…”into/ their sight lines.” The kitchen in our house was the central location for most good and bad moments which made me think of my sister Pam who died in 1995. When I use the word us in this piece I’m referring to my younger brother and sister and myself.
“Be quiet! I’m trying to read the Bible,” you screamed
trying to silence our constant bickering
your newfound faith had you
wearing an AGAPE cape
burning your albums;
constantly praying─
you, who used to wear hot pants and Gogo boots,
who introduced us to Taco Kid;
the wonders of fast food
One night father gathered us in the kitchen
breaking the news that you tried to end your life
silent and stunned we couldn’t believe
you’d turn on yourself because of a lover’s break
I saw your ghost on Facebook today
bronzed and beautiful, lying on Puerto Rican beach
it’s really your daughter,
a gypsy at heart;
she’s everything you wanted to be
fiercely independent, beautiful, free
Barb Edler
20 February 2022
Oh, the lines “I saw your ghost on Facebook today/ bronzed and beautiful…” struck right into my heart. Yes, I know this moment. Yes.
Barb, another poem that draws me right in. I was about to scroll to the bottom of the day’s posts so I could read from the start (early risers) but you made me stop as soon as I read the first line. I love how you took me on a ride with the “AGAPE cape” then the unexpected “turn on yourself because of a lover’s break” to the poignant final lines…
Isn’t it frightening and alarming how Facebook posts can almost feel like spirits visiting us? I lost way too many people in the last 3 years and it seems like FB wants me to see them everyday. But it’s lovely that the daughter is embodying her in a different form.
❣️
Barb, I love that opening line. It’s both humorous and ironic considering Pam is reading the Bible. I’m guessing she found religion in the 1989s when the so-called baskmadking conspiracy theory prompted many to purge their record collections.Your father had to have been heartbroken delivering that news. You paint a vivid picture of your neice, and I see her as a young woman living a life her mom might have lived in a more just world. You’ve sure had your share of heartache, my friend. Sending peace and hugs.
Thank you, Glenda. Actually this happened in the mid 70’s. I wanted to capture so many things but I couldn’t pull it all in. I think I need to write a personal narrative and send it to my sister’s children who I have not had a close relationship with. One thing that made her so special was her truly unselfish nature. I am so glad for your prompt today. I had book club tonight and just posted my poem two minutes before it met. Now I am fixing supper, but I will be back to read everyone’s pieces, and I’m sure to shed more tears.
Barb — Your poem really pulled me in with the dialogue and images of the “AGAPE cape and ” hot pants and Gogo boots” and then then the turn to the kitchen
when “father gathered us in the kitchen/breaking the news that you tried to end your life” was so heart wrenching.
Oh, Barb — Your poem took me to one of my own losses, although in very different circumstances, to a place beyond my ever being connected… but no less gone forever. The resounding loss in your poem…(and I am so sorry for that) the ghost of what she wanted to be, lying there so clearly on a FB image… wow! I love that your niece is, indeed, the “free” (well, at least in that pic) one. Your poem actually offers me a new way of looking at things… maybe seeing the ghost is in some way is a relief. I hadn’t thought of any of this in this way. Your journey here last night has offered me, once again, new perspectives. Thank you. Susie
Glenda–what a vivid and loving memory! I feel that I know your father right now. And these lines–
His curled fingers deciphered
each child: son, daughters
nieces & nephews.
BEautiful.
A great prompt, Glenda. The idea of the kitchen stuck with me this time and brought back so any memories. Thanks for the fun.
Kitchen Legends
When I am making spaghetti I think
of my moma’s baked pasta with cheddar cheese.
Her terrific, savory recipe.
Not quite knowing her trick
I wonder why mine doesn’t taste the same?
When I am making fruitcake I remember
the cakes made in coffee cans each holiday season
and baked in my aunt’s wood fired stove.
Using a modern oven
no wonder mine doesn’t taste the same.
When it’s time to make the turkey gravy I vision
Ada bent over a steaming pot with her grandson
as I am looking over her shoulder
trying to learn and taste the results before it is served.
When I make the chocolate chip cookies I remember
standing next to Laurie when we were twelve years old
and making a muddle of the kitchen.
My cookies never taste that delicious
and I still make the mess.
When I open my recipe book I see tucked inside
an envelope of aged, hand written recipes
found in my grandmother’s kitchen after her death
and I fail to recreate them.
When I grab a cookbook of Czech baking
given to me by a friend from long ago
I drool and wonder, do I ever want to make
those complicated and delicious Kolaches?
Sweet keepsakes of the past well cherished.
These mouth-watering memories of legend
fool my tongue and
make my mediocre attempts taste so much better.
Susan, your poem is delectable and making me hungry. It’s like a layered cake filled w/ goodness that melts in your mouth and leaves me wanting more. I’m gonna try to refrain from eating cookies tonight, but boy am I craving these dishes. Love this poem.
Susan–so many memories in our cookbooks. and I wonder–is it us, or the fact that memories and love make them taste so wonderful?
”memories of legend” indeed. Can our attempts ever match the sweetness of what we remember?
Susan, so much of your poem led me down my own memory lane, especially of hand written recipes. To me these are the best treasures. I think we are kindred spirits in the kitchen:) I have never attempted kolaches, but boy do I love eating them.
Susan — I really can relate to this poem, especially this line “Not quite knowing her trick/
I wonder why mine doesn’t taste the same?”
My mother was always trying to teach me how to make dumplings and nut rolls. I never paid too much attention and now that she is gone, I wish I’d paid more attention.
This was tough for me because I still think I didn’t get the closure I needed. What is funny though is that I had recently shared the same memory of him singing this song I named in the choir. Nobody could sing it like him.
The Godfather
Memories of watching you from the congregation singing “A Brighter Day Ahead”,
Sweat pouring from your face, in your blue suit, white shirt, and honorary deacon tie.
Not knowing that you would be soon taken away and your brighter day came sooner than I wanted to.
You were a counselor, a people person, something that I admired about you,
Yet you had an ugly side, deep down anger that rose your blood pressure.
It was detrimental to your health.
One of my favorite memories was riding your bus when I had to go home with you, stopping by Tastee Freeze for ice cream and a burger.
I loved going over to your siblings’ house, deep diving in church gossip, but having a hard time sitting and listening.
I enjoyed the smells of greens, fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, and cornbread, mixed with the aroma of Cigarette D’Stink.
Came home one weekend and you shared some truths, but my time was limited.
You held the secret to my parent’s divorce.
I promised to come back, but I was too late. I had so many unanswered questions that I needed answered.
What a punch in the gut.
You knew more than I did and I wish I had gotten the chance to sit down and listen.
I was left to try and put the pieces together, but I was too scared so I put the puzzle in the closet.
You would be so proud of me, for I’m an educator too,
Your compassion, bright smile, and heavy love
Now leaves my heart an empty void.
I will always remember. Reminiscing of what once was,
But never will be again.
Dear Jessica, I can see how much you loved him and regret not asking more questions. I had a similar relationship and wish I had sat and listened. I guess when we are young we don’t realize the value until it is too late. Its even harder when life is lost unexpectedly and too early.
You are so right Susan. I was young and definitely didn’t have a clue. Once I got older I figured it out.
Jessica, Wowza! “You held the secret to
my parents’ divorce.” That’s a heavy line filled w/ unanswered questions. “Cigarette D’Stink” is a great term. People are so complicated, and full of secrets, as your memory illustrates. Lots to contemplate here.
Very much so. I dwell on that memory so often, that it’s hard to “forget”. Those vivid memories I will forever cherish, I just wish I had the time to go back and make more time.
Jessica, I love how you bring this important counselor in your life to life on the page. I especially appreciated how you painted an honest picture one that shows he had a temper, too. I’m sorry for your loss and understand the levity of your final lines. Thanks for sharing your honest voice and loss with us today.
Jessica — this line really spoke to me “Came home one weekend and you shared some truths, but my time was limited”. Reading those lines brought tears to my eyes because it feels like there is never enough time and when we lose someone close, it just brings that home so much harder.
Glenda, your poem is an education on just a sliver of what that relationship must have been like, enlightening as to what it must have been like to live with someone with blindness. I have no idea, so this was meaningful for me in that way. And, likewise, some father memories here, a bit disjointed, but I take it as it comes! This is another great prompt to revisit in various ways!
Father’s Presence
You are here
when I whistle
old country classics.
none I ever heard again
since you sang them
washing dishes
a kitchen towel apron
tucked into your belt
You are here
when people ask
“How are you?”
With a broad-faced smile
I offer
your pithy reply
“I’m nice. How about you?”
You are here
as I compare
toothpaste prices
and buy
more than one tube
“Such a good deal”
you’d say
You are here
each time the
Tigers’ announcer
calls fans
to the radio
macular degeneration
having taken your sight
long before
your last breath
And you are here
in the silvery cowlick
of my hair
others as jealous
of my gorgeous gray
as they had been
of your thinning curls
I often wonder
how long those who pass
are remembered
Those of us
with lives mostly
unremarkable
except for the fact
we were here
Once we were all here
and stay so long
as memories remain
Absolutely beautiful memories and recognitions of Dad in yourself in this poem. I love the silvery hair and the country songs and the radio. Such wonderful detail.
Denise, there’s a moment in your poem that resonates w/ my own questioning of memories and death: “I often wonder / how long those who pass / are remembered.” I wonder if I’ll be remembered for more than a few days. Most of us have “lives mostly unremarkable/ except for the fact / we were here,” yet here we are w/ our memories, resurrecting and honoring those we’ve lost, those who were here.
Whoosh!
Once we were all here
and stay so long
as memories remain
You are here. The repetition made me cry…
Denise, I love the premise of thinking how are loved ones are here as we do the things we saw them do, as they taught us perhaps. But it’s your last two stanzas that have really caught hold of me. Thank you, because those words are a real gift, I’ll carry them with me!
Denise, I could connect to the way you remember your father in so many ways. Your end is especially provocative. Your lines “Those of us/with lives mostly unremarkable” is haunting because I am thinking that’s the majority. It’s interesting to think about how one touches our life in different ways like buying toothpaste. Powerful poem! Thanks!
Writing this poem made me think more deeply of my dad than I let myself sometimes. Self preservation, I guess. But I enjoyed writing this poem today. Thank you, Glenda, for letting me think of my dad who’s only been gone 4 1/2 years.
Sometimes I think
I see
you walk through
the door,
hat removed,
smelling of grease and dirt,
tired after a long day.
Always a long day.
Sometimes I think
I hear
your laugh,
one reserved for
occasions where
laughter can’t be faked.
Sometimes I think
I feel
your hand,
immense, calloused,
a hand that knew
life’s labor,
a hand that spanked
painless
for fear of hurt,
a hand that
fed and hugged and rocked and tickled
babies.
Sometimes I forget
that you’re not here.
Your life one that we’ve
learned to live without
but never to forget.
I don’t like that I used forget twice in the last stanza, but it’ll have to do for now!
Carriann, this is such a visceral poem. If it’s any consolation, the repetition of “forget” in the last stanza only emphasizes how one doesn’t. I was especially moved by the description of your father’s hand “that knew life’s labor” – such a powerful detail.
Thank you so much for your sweet words.
I love the repetition in “sometimes I think” and the vivid images, especially of the hand. A strong stanza, and strong, clear memories. Thanks for sharing this memory.
Thank you for your feedback!
I can feel the loss in this. What a wonderful person you were lucky to know as Dad. Always a long day…that line was so true.
Dads always said that didn’t they?
Carriann, I feel your poem deeply and understand the heartache of remembering and the emotional labor that gave us these heartfelt words today. I was young (16) when my dad died, but even now I think of him often and wonder what our relationship would have been like had he lived.
It’s always interesting to think about what they would be doing now. Thank you for prompting us to think about these beloved people who have left us!
Carriann, Your poem is so tender and moving. To have a father whose spankings were painless is especially moving. The love you have radiates from this poem. So very sorry for your loss.
Thank you so much. My sister and I would always laugh after he spanked us because it was so easy. My moms meant business. He was so strong and his hands so big though, that he was afraid he’d hurt us.
[Note: I loved Glenda’s invitation to the ghosts. While I’m not much of a ghostbuster…no Caspers in my repertoire, I do like the notion of a presence. Glenda, your poem about your dad…well, holy smokes, that was just marvelous…I could just see “his curled fingers decipher[ing].” What a rich poem!]
IGNIS FATUUS[a flitting phosphorescent light that appears over marshy ground; believed to be the result of spontaneous combustion of gas from decomposed organic matter.]
Despite my brother’s gripes
to “git her off that blasted piano;
she’s driving me nuts…,”
Mama never pushed me from music,
never dissuaded me from writing,
never dispraised my lyrics.
Even thirty-five years
after she plunged into the ether,
still she listens to me practice,
never minding the missed notes;
she waits for me to raise
both arms, fisted in triumph,
over my head,
having played a bit better
than the day before;
she smiles, says nothing
but archives the effort
in a yeasty basket of deeds —
savories.
Each time I act,
protract a move,
create, take a seat
at the instrument,
pen, keyboard, strings,
I feel
Mama
as surely as warm water
soaks wearied muscles
to healing,
and a flit of light
rises.
by Susie Morice, February 20, 2022©
What a wonderful title for this poem. And, what a voice! The voice is very distinct and a believer of presence. I love that. What a fortunate daughter to be able to call up such a presence with this poem.
Susie, I so hoped for a mama poem from you today, and you delivered a gem. Your brother’s dialogue is so feisty! I can hear the “hit her off the piano,” words he’s pounding to the best of your playing. What a cacophony of sibling angst! I love the way mama nurtured your playing of piano and pen, and all those stringed instruments. Now we here savor the concerto of words you play for us. What a gift! Love!
These lines right here–
“in a yeasty basket of deeds —
savories.”
I am so envious…
Susie, your words are incredibly moving and paint such a marvelous picture of your mother’s patience. Your poetry is like a beautiful tune rising like “a flit of light/rises”. Sheer genius! Loved hearing your brother’s voice in this, too! Thank you for sharing such a beautiful tribute with us today!
This is so beautiful and so easy to picture you in this moment:
“she waits for me to raise
both arms, fisted in triumph,
over my head,
having played a bit better
than the day before;”
Clearly, you learned a lot about being a gentle and accepting educator from her.
a smile
someone once said to me
when your kitchen sink backs up during holiday
cooking, it’s your dead relatives coming up –
they’re angry they weren’t invited
– so when my kitchen sink backs up I smile –
my angry dead relatives have arrived
Jamie — This is truly a fun treat! Love that notion of the “relatives have arrived.” LOL! Thanks…I’m going to share with my cousin! HA! Susie
I love love love these kinds of – what do you even call these? A superstition? A proverb? It’s fun how you turn it around from a negative to a positive! And heck yeah, this has happened to me, so now I know what THAT was all about. I will definitely be repeating this one in my lifetime, I’m sure. Thanks, Jamie!
ha! Oh, I love this. So funny. What a great way to see the unlucky event of a clogged sink.
Jamie, Love the humor. It helps when there’s a holiday kitchen disaster. Tell me what a dishwasher that gives up the ghost on Thanksgiving means. That happened to me in 2020. My fear now is the oven will die on Easter!
Hi Jamie! What a fun twist! I will have to remember this if the sink decides to welcome my dead relatives at the worst time possible. ??
Thanks for sharing this one, Jamie. I love it and will remember.
Jamie–what a great, pithy poem. Thank you for the thought and the smile!
Jamie, thank you for this! So funny!
Jamie, I will remember this forever. Thanks for the smile:)
This makes me giggle and giggle. My angry dead relatives clearly hang around a lot. 🙂
Jamie, this made me laugh out loud! I’ve never thought of it that way. “they’re angry they weren’t invited.” Didn’t know they needed an invitation to haunt. No wonder why the smell is so bad. Death has arrived!
I really enjoyed this! I had to start mine in the kitchen also.
The kneading of bread
It’s especially in the kneading of
dough that I know they are here.
The furrowed brow,
the quick deft movements
(fold, rollrollroll, fold, rollrollroll)
my arm and shoulder muscles know
because they are
my mom’s and her mom’s and her mom’s and…..
This isn’t just an art,
Its not a meditation,
It isn’t trendy.
It’s egg noodles and dinner rolls
and hearty loaves of bread
baked in electric ovens, in wood burning stoves, and over fires in chimneys made of
mud and sticks.
It was life
for hungry people with calloused hands,
who whistled and smoked,
who had prejudices and loves.
For people who sweat and were stubborn.
For people who dreamed.
In Western Kansas
the air is heavy today with ancestors.
My shirt sticks to my back
as I am walking through this field of wheat.
The roots plunge deep
under my feet
into this earth.
Emily, I love your perspective on baking bread, a talent I never acquired. You put baking into perspective, into context. The necessity of baking long ago is such a contrast to the hobby baking of so mss as my now. Yes, “the air is heavy today with ancestors” and I’m loving the weight of all the stories we’re sharing.
Thanks Emily. I was thinking about bread making as well.My family is involved with weekly sourdough baking. Your descriptions wonderful and I wish I could add egg noodles and dinner rolls to my repertoire. I am lucky to not have to depend on my bread for sustenance.
This “In the Kitchen” moment was very visual. I’ve never made bread, but just by your descriptions, I felt like I was there in that moment. “It isn’t just an art.” So much to interpret here. My arms are tired! This line, (fold, rollrollroll, fold, rollrollroll)…I love how you put the rolls without spaces. Such hard work to make such deliciousness!
Emily,
What a great narrative poem–I really like the looking back to the prairie women kneading their bread, too. Nice!
Emily— I had so many favorite lines that I practically was going to copy and paste your entire poem in my comment. I’ll focus on the final image that inspires me to write more: “The roots plunge deep / under my feet / into this earth.” Thanks for writing this ?
Glenda, the mentor poem was a beautiful ode. Your model held such vivid imagery which stirred a visceral reaction in me. Thank you for sharing.
Dust Bowl
Presently, rain beats on the
window, street lights flicker,
haze embraces the home.
Inside, in a well-lit kitchen
potatoes are getting
peeled. The omnipresent
transparent sous chef
accompanies me.
Neither of us particularly
enjoy peeling potatoes
(so many potatoes),
dicing onions,
and measuring out flour
whose nebulous particles
dissipate in the atmosphere.
It reminds her of the decade-long
drought which brought
famine to the North
Dakotan farm. Her husband
is dead. She must provide for eight
little mouths. Nothing can go
to waste. Everything is blanketed
by tiny pieces of earth. It is
suffocating. There is nothing
to do but to persist.
Nearly 100 years later, in a kitchen
1200 miles away, potatoes
are peeled to preserve
great-grandma’s past.
Rachelle — What a beautiful tribute to your great grandma! The potatoes themselves are so hearty and sustaining…like the poem. The Dust Bowl …oh wow…living through that silt blown so many miles… incredible what people endured to feed those “eight/little mouths.” Whew! This reminded me of the book, The Worst Hard Time by Timothy Egan, which I think is the best account of Dust Bowl realities that I’ve ever read. Your poem would fit right in. Wonderful poem. Thank you. Susie
Rachelle, like Susie, I’m reminded of a book as I read your poem. It’s Out of the Dust, a novel in verse. Your poem also makes me think of My Antonia. I can see the flour floating and the potato peeling. I think about this food that was once a budget-friendly staple that’s now an option, a treat for many. The last stanza is a beautiful culmination of an ethereal tribute.
Omg I literally just typed the same thing, her poem could be in Out of the Dust! ????
Ohhhh! Beautiful poem honoring your great grandma, the perseverance she must’ve had to get through the Dust Bowl period. This poem could easily be in the book Out of the Dust. Love it!
Wow!! The story you tell here is beautiful!
“Her husband
is dead. She must provide for eight
little mouths. Nothing can go
to waste. Everything is blanketed
by tiny pieces of earth. It is
suffocating. There is nothing
to do but to persist.”
so much, in so few words. Amazing.
I always enjoy your poems that refer to your midwestern family and roots, I feel a connection! This one is beautiful, I love the thought of honoring grandmothers in the kitchen. Especially during the dust bowl, the way in which every scrap was saved. My poem took a similar turn today!
Rachelle,
I love your poems that take me to your roots! What a beautiful tribute to your great-grandma. I particularly like this bit that seems a precursor to the dust bowl in the next stanza:
REVERSE OSMOSIS
Sometimes,
in the quiet of a weekend classroom
the ghosts of old poems whisper in my ear
and tease me, flicking my ear with umami or
cadence with a slithering ssssss…
They ride on my shoulder,
on my hoodie like muse lint,
and suggest I look out toward the tree line,
sometimes.
And other sometimes,
they chagrin me, pouting
as my thought constipation leaves me sitting,
looking at screen white,
screen white looking back at me.
Bacon, breath mints, spent syringes, cinnamon,
and orange Nosferatu, they charge me
through sucking riverbanks of chutney mud
as fragrant onomatopeiatic dream hippos,
sometimes to play
sometimes to just overwhelm.
Sometimes they walk the edges of the lockers
along the hall,
through the doorway of my room.
I watch them, and miss them,
and remember them as magic moments,
tiny touches in a St. Louis lepidopterarium.
Sometimes
they congeal, thick morphing,
and sometimes they see through me
as I through them,
opposites on the same pane of glass.
Wow, Rex. Thank you for sharing this poem today. Olfactory and gustatory imagery in the 4th stanza emphasized the line “sometimes to play / sometimes to just overwhelm.”
Rex — I sure do like the whole idea of how poems come back to us in this osmosis-like kind of way…(good title!)… and it is osmosis-y … that “whisper” and that “tease” and that looking back from the white screen and “walking at the edges” and “congeal[ing]”… yes…all that! So spot-on! Susie
Rex, I love the image of poetry as ghosts whispering, hovering, inspiring. This truly does happen to me, and I find myself saying, “there’s a poem…” only to find I can’t quite recall all the words. I’ll be thinking about this poem in the days to come. Thank you!
Rex, I love how your poetry appears like your photography, full of angles, and interesting perspectives. I especially enjoyed “Sometimes they walk the edges of the lockers”…I was completely pulled into the freshman hall which has always seemed a bit spooky to me. Rich poem full of sounds and smells.
Glenda, thank you for your mentor poems and prompts (today and yesterday) and for introducing me to Crystal Wilkinson’s poetry! After reading about your father’s blindness, I was especially drawn toward your lines, “My father watched / his children through / outstretched hands” and “He read my / skin like braille, interpreting each / plot line of my adolescence.” So vivid!
_______________________________________
Unnatural
supernatural
hot take:
I don’t
believe
in ghosts.
Shocking,
right? I
know.
I’ve seen all
15 seasons
of the show,
have watched
all the Poltergeist
movies, can quote
“They’re here,”
have even touched,
hands flush against,
the cool screen of
a staticky television
when saying it,
have uttered a
“This house is
clean” at the drop
of a hat, but, still,
I’m not quite sure
whether I truly
or honestly
believe,
now, believe
me, when I tell
you I realize
“there are more
things in heaven
and earth…than
are dreamt of
in [my] philosophy.”
It’s like, look,
I believe in ghosts
about as much
as I believe in
Chicago.
I mean, I guess,
it exists, people
have claimed to
visit, but I’ve never
seen it, never
experienced it.
I mean, they didn’t
invent wind or pizza,
did they? We have
those things here,
too.
What I’m saying
is I have enough
trouble “reading the
room” with people
in it, now I have to
worry about ghosts,
too? Is it too hot
or too cold, should I
put them at ease
by flickering the lights?
And what about all
that salt? “When it
rains it pours,” but
who can carry all of
that, and we only
have one good iron
at home, but it’s kinda
heavy. Do I have to lug
that around, too?
And what are they
waiting around for?
I’m getting anxious just
thinking about it. Don’t
they have some place
better to be, like
Disney world or something
(there I’ve been), can’t
they just hang out there
until they “pass on” or
whatever?
Serious question.
Scott — Ahh thank you for this poem today. I was drawn in immediately, and this line stuck out to me in particular: “It’s like, look, / I believe in ghosts / about as much / as I believe in / Chicago.”
Scott — Your poem captured where I was with the ghosting all morning. Hmmm. I don’t do those ghosty things. But then again… like you point out
It made me laugh. Your poem had me chuckling all the way through it. And my fave is the Chicago bit. Ha! Love it. Susie
Scott, your poem was so much fun to read. I love all the allusions to ghost-themed movies and shows. I like to think they are all hanging out at Disney World. Maybe a great idea for a sit-com.
Scott, I appreciate the humor and your belief/disbelief embodied in this internal debate w/in your soul. Favorite lines are,
“I have enough
trouble “reading the
room” with people
in it, now I have to
worry about ghosts,
too?”
Yes, yes, you do. The haunting is coming for you, so have faith, you know, that thing with substance that is unseen.
I have enough
trouble “reading the
room” with people
in it, now I have to
worry about ghosts,
too?
and there it is, my friend. As always, you sucked me and pulled me through!
Glenda, another incredible and inviting prompt/mentor poem to inspire us today. I am not familiar with Crystal Wilkinson so thank you for sharing.
Your poem resonated with me because my paternal grandfather was blind. I don’t have many memories of him other than watching him at the dining room table and wondering if he knew I was there.
I decided to write 3 Gogyohkas today because I felt compelled to speak to 3 spirits.
Three Spirits
My grandmother’s spirit
is a cloak
a faded apron
and the nudging
to bake and laugh.
My mother’s spirit
hovers over the kitchen table
in her house
where the new family
forgets to bless their food.
My father’s spirit
never visits
but waits in airports
like it’s 1969
searching for home.
© Stacey L. Joy, 2/20/22
I really like the visual of the last stanza. Nothing captures the state of ghost limbo like waiting in an airport for a return to where we came from!
I love the distinctness of each of your family members – faded apron, the new family forgets to bless their food, waits in airports – each one clearly depicted allowing us to know a little about each of them
Stacey — I really like the way you’ve divided this into 3 spirits and in such an emanation…from the cloak, apron, and blessing at the table. It’s the 3rd spirit that has me so curious about 1969 and the airport — provocative! I so love grandmother! Aah, yes! Hugs, Susie
Stacey, I appreciate you so much. You’ve created quite the contrast among these three spirits. There’s tenderness and love in the first two and a tinge of bitterness and humor in the third, my favorite, because I so admire the lost in the past vibe and the specific imagery that’s both a little funny and a lot sad. Sending hugs.
Stacey, your poetry never fails to amaze me. I love the title of your poem and how you bring each spirit to life. From your grandmother’s faded apron to your father’s spirit searching for home, I am completely transported by the imagery of how our loved ones remain with us in the everyday routines of our life. I have never heard of the type of poetry you have written today. Thanks for your beautiful poetry and sharing a form I will have to explore!
Each spirit is so clear in these short, evocative stanzas: your mother, waiting for the blessing; your father, searching for home. Waiting… waiting… somehow, this fills me with a pleasant melancholy.
it’s an improbability, i think,
that you can miss someone you’re next to,
but maybe that you can
when it’s someone you love and are close to.
there’s a dull ache in me
from the blunt of the blade that you keep,
and it hurts in a good way,
as i lay awake
while you sleep.
you say catch me while you can,
but somehow you always caught me.
you think you’re not a perfect mom.
but that’s hardly the truth.
you said
“this is where the decline takes root,
and plummets like an anchor.
it feels unstoppable.
lifting it would be a feat for the strongman,
and all his circus friends.
you’re drowning,
but remember how i taught you to swim.
i’m smelling the roses
where the grass is greener.
don’t stop living just because
i couldn’t anymore.”
you’re okay now.
i will be okay now.
-ejh
Emma, I feel the weightiness of your words, the longing and haunting of loss and memory commingled, resting side by side. “don’t stop living” might be the hardest directive a parent gives and for a child to obey. There’s a guilt associated w/ this going on, I think.
Emma, I am completely moved by your poem, its complexity and layers of emotion and imagery. So many lines seem to have double messages such as “you’re drowning,/but remember how i taught you to swim.” The final lines are haunting. Incredibly powerful and beautiful poem.
Agree – by the time I get to those two final lines, I caught my breath. There are layers of moments captured here. I love all the ‘advice lines’ tangled together. Just this one alone “remember how i taught you to swim” would be a great prompt. It encompasses so much.
Keyboard Ghosts
Sometimes the dead appear on my keyboard. I see
my not-yet-dead mother’s hands in my carpals when
I type S. Her bruised backhand, yellow & purple from IVs.
Her chapped knuckles reddened from Comet scouring remind
me of hands that could never be enough. Sometimes
she watches me, side-eyed as I type judging my truth. She
speaks in the silence between spacebars & keystrokes. She asks
me to move her story from the white spaces to the gray
Arial font interrupting my flow. Sometimes the not-yet-dead
just want to be heard. She stands, never sits, in my office
wanting her poem, when I have just 2 minutes left for mine, when
the words I want are hijacked by her haunting.
Today, I recorded my poem-ing for my students who are about to begin crafting poetry in our Teaching Writers course. I thought I would share this with y’all and invite you to do try recording your process someday if you are inclined. I set the timer for 15 minutes and promised to be okay with whatever came/or didn’t. The ghosts of “not good enough” are real: https://youtu.be/9Jsjy1dSvgM
Sarah, I just finished watching your video, and I loved it! I really enjoyed watching you read (and think) through Crystal Wilkinson’s poem. And I loved hearing you work through the crafting of your poem — “I’m going to see where that takes me,” “Maybe that’s good, I don’t know” — because these are things we, folks at Ethical ELA, can all relate to. And speaking for myself, I smiled broadly at “I need words sometimes” as you opened up Google to explore the back of the hand. Yes! And what is this madness about writing your poem “in the actual text box”!?! That blew my mind! Your timer went off, you tweaked a few things, and then you — rather quickly, I might add, so that you couldn’t stop yourself – clicked on the “post comment” button. I’ll be honest, there was a sharp intake of breathe on my side of the screen when you did that! Thanks, again, for posting your poem (and your process).
Sarah, this idea of a ghost acting as editor of our writing is brilliant. I love the lines, “speaks in the silence between spacebars & keystrokes.” Such an amazing image. The final line, too, is golden: “the words I want are hijacked by her haunting.” I wish I’d composed these lines. I love them.
Sarah, this was a very interesting and moving piece. A line I loved is “Sometimes the not-yet-dead / just want to be heard.” I also love the idea that she stands and never sits, a presence always watching over your shoulder.
Sarah,
I love the way you build on yesterday’s writing. I hope you are finding it therapeutic to do so. I remain in awe of how you use typewriter/writing lingo to relate to emotions from the haunting. “hijacked by her haunting” = perfect.
I’m looking forward to watching the video.
Sarah, “hijacked by her haunting” really works as alliteration as far as hammering home her spirit’s influence. I liked the keyboard references, as it reminded me of Still Life With Woodpecker.
I loved listening to your writing process, your think aloud, your visual imagery bruised backhand, yellow & purple from IVs, reddened from Comet; and the final alliteration hijacked by her haunting
OOOooo, Sarah — Well, this is just so rich! The image of those hands (ouch). The ghostly “side-eyed” observation “judging my truth.” Oh man! That sense that the ghost interrupts is so powerful. I had not thought about the ghost interrupting, and now I want to think about that a whole lot more… true…there are those interrupters that hijack! Super! I really loved this. Susie
Sarah, thank you for reminding me that those not-yet-dead are the ones who give us the opportunities to take the moments that we have now and make them matter – – because all those times that we will soon wish we had five more minutes are possible while time still allows. You remind us to listen, and I think of those who want to be heard. And because listen is my one little word this year, I think of what it is that I need to hear, too. This is beautiful.
Sarah, wow, I was immediately and completely pulled into your poem with your first line. The raw imagery of your mother’s hands and how she is watching you and judging your truth is haunting and chilling, too. “Wanting her poem” is provocative and I can feel so much emotion in these words. Then your ending line is a slam dunk….loved “the words I want are hijacked by her haunting”! Sensational poem! Kudos!
And just when I thought I couldn’t be in more awe, you share a video of your process! Do you know how valuable this is for me and any writer??? I love hearing you think aloud. This is the epitome of modeling good teaching practices. I now think I have to start writing “aloud” when I teach any new writing lessons with my scholars. Thank you, Sarah.
Your poem is another treasure to behold. I wonder what your mom might say after reading your poem. Does she want it as much as we do?
I love:
Phenomenal! ❤️
Another good one, Glenda.
Mirror Memories
Sometimes I walk by a mirror
I will see her face
Sometimes I wonder
Is that really lace
Sometimes it’s my grandma I see
Sometimes it’s her face I see on me
Sometimes I smile. It’s been a while
Since you’ve been to my place
When I open my drawer for underwear
I’ll look around to see if she’s there
She was a neat-nick and I truly am not
She’ll see how sloppy I now have got
But, mostly her spirit is one of cheer
Do it right and you’ll have nothing to fear
Do all to please God and don’t worry about me
I nod and say “Yes”, when it’s her I see
Sometimes when I walk by the mirror
Anna, Your opening lines—“Sometimes I walk by a mirror / I will see her face”— remind me of how photos function as mirrors. My brother and I looked at family photos he found on ancestry.com that I’d never seen, and I saw us in those old photos of family I never met. I love the way you weave words into a reminder of the influence family has on us. Side note: My step grandmother took me bra shopping because my stepmother would not.
Anna,
I love thinking that you and I were writing our poems at the same time in different literal and figurative states. The body moving toward, the gesture of walking by, the moment of noticing in the mirror is a perfect way of poeming this today. You have reimagined Wilkinson’s “sometimes” in beautiful possibilities.
Sarah
Anna — I sure have done that very glance in the mirror! Universal human experience…you bet! I love how you capture what I’ve felt as “I see her face.” Susie
Anna, this seeing the image of our ancestors in ourselves is really quite moving and oddly comforting to see that we are part of the bigger picture of family. I always love your rhyme scheme and your messages that work together so beautifully. Your image adds to the feelings of nostalgia and roots.
Jason, my friend
Sometimes your loss hits like wind pounding my chest when I hear country songs
we listened to with car windows down, belting out-
“… And it’s a great
DAY
to be alive!”
Sometimes my nose stings when laughter bubbles up, unshared
An alligator grin and side-eye I conjure so clearly
I smile with my eyes closed.
Sometimes you’re dancing alongside me at our friend’s wedding,
cackling with joy, strutting, celebrating with silly flailing arms.
Sometimes you pat me on the shoulder and remind me-
friends don’t need perfection and fear, but my
courage and presence
when they are sick and saying
goodbye.
Lyric credits to:
Songwriters: Darrell Scott
It’s a Great Day to Be Alive lyrics © BMG Rights Management, ME Gusta Music, Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC
Emily — I feel the love and loss in this poem. You capture beautiful memories of your beautiful friendship. These lines really hit me: “…remind me -friends don’t need perfection and fear, but my courage and presence when they are sick and saying goodbye”
Emily, I’m thinking about all those Friday nights cruising w/ friends, making memories, singing songs, and I feel both the nostalgia and loss in your poem. Friends are treasures, as your words so beautifully remind us.
Emily, I feel the “gulp” in the first line “your loss hits like wind pounding my chest” and then sit alongside you listening to the song and the reminders of friendship’s “courage and presence.” Thank you!
Sarah
Oh gosh, Emily — The loss here is so poignant. Finding it in the lyrics is something that absolutely resonates with me. These lines just really got me:
I feel so sad about such a dear loss. Sending love, Susie
Gus & Tony
The spicy heat of a Bloody Mary
takes me back to the airport bar
where the three of us would laugh
and relish the hair of the dog.
The smooth cherry and almond finish
of a fine merlot
sends me to Tony’s living room
on a cold February night,
warmed by the orange and yellow glow of the fire.
Two brothers whose generosity and lust for life
are always with me.
Always reminding me to seize the day.
Take the risks.
Put others before yourself.
What a vivid memory you paint of that airport bar. “Relish the hair of the dog” tells so much.
Shaun, a toast to you, Gus, and Tony. I’m sure you have many wonderful stories about stories you three told over a good drink. Your poem reminds me of some of my own.
Shaun — Beautiful and vivid memories! I can feel the warmth of the fire and hear the laughter.
Shaun,
That first stanza is perfection. I am sitting alongside you all admiring the joy of the moment and the night before. I so appreciate this introduction to Gus & Tony in verse.
Peace,
Sarah
Grandma’s Words
We lay side by side in the twin bed,
Blankets tucked tight against the cold.
The light from the living room sidled through the door.
Quiet words flowed between us.
“I’ll tell you a story, then you tell me one.”
Grandma’s words moved into me, through me.
Fairy stories, nursery rhymes, fables.
Far-away worlds brought home to me..
Stories about her childhood were the best of all.
I came to know her through those tales.
A middle child in braids, growing up on a farm,
Walking home from school in a snowstorm
to see her papa’s lantern-glow coming to meet them.
I learned about a time that no longer existed.
Her world became mine.
And then she would say, “It’s your turn now”
I would offer my simpler world to her.
Stories about talking cats,
naughty rabbits, runaway dogs.
Always with happy endings.
I only knew happy endings then.
Those tucked-in twilights remain in me.
The words my grandmother planted grew,
took root, became part of my soul.
I am made of her words
and all of the words I have learned since then.
Words are magic.
Stories sustain us’
Someday soon, I will lie in bed with my granddaughter.
I will begin, “I’ll tell you a story and you tell me one.”
GJS 2/20/22
Gayle – I’m tearing up here with this beautiful, tender moment you portray here. I LOVE this moment, this back and forth between your grandmother and you. I feel how much she honored who you were, and loved what you had to say. The love is apparent in every line. She gifted you with this love of words and story, and it’s so clear in how you write now. Love love love it!
“Words are magic.
Stories sustain us”
Indeed!
Kevin
Gayle, your grandmother sounds like a wonderful woman. I love the tender way she empowered you and the circularity of your poem w/ you envisioning how you’ll share stories w/ your grandchild, “Her world became mine.” is my favorite line. We really go become one w/ people through their stories.
Gayle — The memories of you and your grandmother tucked in bed sharing stories is so beautiful and the way you capture innocence “I only knew happy ending then” — wow! So powerful!
Gayle, this is beautiful and full of gentle, loving heart. A line that really gripped me was “I only knew happy endings then.” Wonderful.
Oh, Gayle! I love the intimacy of this poem and the phrase “words are magic” echo for me alongside the invitation to “tell me one” — a story. Isn’t that everything!
Sarah
Gayle — Yes! The tenderness of you two lying there is gorgeous. The full-circle to your own grands someday…aah yes, indeed. Magic..yes! I so love getting to know her through those tales…and in turn, getting to know you word-by-word through this poem. Quite magical. Susie
Gayle, I love this: “I am made of her words / and all of the words I have learned since then. / Words are magic. / Stories sustain us.” And I love the notion of you keeping the story going by “ly[ing] in bed with [your] granddaughter” and keeping the tradition alive.
Gayle, the traditions continue and pass down from generation to generation – – you show us the importance of the story and preserving the past here. What a beautiful scene, you with your grandmother and fast forward to you with your granddaughter, telling stories. Moments that are never forgotten.
Glenda,
The rich experiences you provide us each day are incredible. I have a feeling you could create an inspiration every day for us and it would always be mind-expanding and inspiring. Thank you for introducing me to Crystal Wilkinson’s work. I plan to dig in more deeply.
As for your poem . . . you take us there. Right there in that scene. Somehow you help us to become both you and your dad. What an image this is:
backhand.
So, rather than writing about an experience with a ghost of a loved one (I have indeed had quite a few), I tried to capture the odd of experience that I have had on more than one occasion while attending mass at our church. “Becoming one” with my own spirit. Odd, I know. But oh so real.
From My Pew
My own spirit
floats above my funeral.
I see her from my pew.
I join her
and the church becomes
the future.
How far?
I can only tell
by my kids’
lives . . .
the boys with
beautiful blondes
by their sides
and the girls
each attending to tow-headed toddlers
in cute little suits.
I float and look in through
the skylights
above the altar.
“Surely the Presence of the Lord Is in This Place”
is being sung,
the kids sniffling
and wiping away tears
that have been stored for years
waiting for this moment.
I pivot my head,
ducking and maneuvering,
trying to see him.
He’d not there.
Leaving me to wonder
in my pew while
sitting next to him
where he is.
~Susan Ahlbrand
20 February 2022
Oh, that final stanza, Susan. So many possibilities not written in those words. I love the wondering about and wandering into the future, the measuring time by your children’s lives, and the storing of tears for years.
Susan, I imagine your out of body imaging of your own funeral is more. i’m mom than you might think. I, too, am wondering about “where is he” and can only imagine what might have happened and what you’re thinking. As a child I often had a similar experience to the one you bring to life in your poem. It only happened when I was i’ll w/ a fever, but it was a feeling of looking down on myself while being frozen and trapped, often in a sort of wooden cocoon or hollow log. It was bizarre, and I e never talked about it. But your poem reminded me of that recurring dream. “and the church becomes the future” is a brilliant line. Thank you for all these words. Peace and blessings to you.
Susan –Wow! Very surreal and yet relatable. These lines —I join her/and the church becomes/the future — really powerful!
Susan–I have chills! So many things, but the ending. “Trying to see him. Leaving me to wonder…where he is.” I am not sure what to do with that, but I know I will remember it!
Susan, I love that song……Surely the Presence of the Lord is in this Place…..and the tune is playing in my head as I read and hear….I can feel the brush of angel wings, I see glory on each face…….and I also wonder who he is and where he is, too. And the mystery is intriguing.
Glenda, your writing these last two days has been fire! The beauty of the words, “He read my skin like braille” have planted themselves within me this morning. Thank you for the inspiration and your words today.
Ghosts Are Like That
some time
in the middle of the night
I caught you
walking near the boardwalk
of my childhood town
you appeared suddenly
moving through the crowded space
close enough to see
but far enough
that I couldn’t reach you
couldn’t reach out to you
but you turned your head
my way
a smile reassuring me
(I gasped)
before you
moved away
continuing
your journey
through the dream I had
moments before your passing
Jennifer, I love the universal ideas here and the ethereal feeling your words evoke in trying to grasp a memory that’s present yet so far away. Beautiful poem.
Jennifer, those dreams are so real – the smiles, the wordless interchanges of our subconscious but oh, so real – and timely. Yes, these are the ghosts of presence by loved ones speaking the messages we need to hear. Your universal message in this dream – they are never far from us and still have their ways!
I love this moment you capture – when you see someone, and it catches you off guard and you search for it. I love the reassuring smile in the crowded space. Beautifully done.
Jennifer, this is wonderful. I love just how real this dream feels, always reaching out but never quite touching. The silent reassurance has to be enough. Lovely.
Oh, Jennifer — This is so ghosty! WOW! I am always amazed at how dreams float the way your poem does…wispy-like. Even the turn of the head is ghost-like…whoosh and “you/moved away/” … the way it ends is so well constructed. I really like this poem. And I’m sad for the loss that comes with it. Hugs, Susie
Jennifer–I joined you, in your dream. and I believe I gasped with you–and the last line–wow.
Jennifer, wow! Your poem has a quiet flow and gives me a floating feeling! “A smile reassuring me” definitely resonated with me. I find myself noticing unexpected smiles from people and wondering if they’re smiling from spirits I know. Wow. I needed this.
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Glenda, I am so moved by your words today – the measuring of the skirt length I remember from my own adolescence, and your memories speak volumes of his ability to sense the world around him with his hands that had quite an impact. You absolutely wrote from your heart today, friend, and what a poem! Sometimes the pain of our memories brings out the most poignant writing, and yours sure does today. Thank you for this amazing prompt. I love ghosts!
Today, I write this poem in memory of my oldest living aunt, Jeanie Haynes, who died on February 2, 2022 at the age of 95.. She lived in Waycross, Georgia where I was born, drank Dr. Pepper, and loved her family!
Kitchen Ghostangels
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord
Sometimes when I open the recipe box, the ghostangels march out to the
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored
strains of How Firm a Foundation and In the Garden, and I’m taken back
He has loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword
to the caramel and chocolate layer cakes hidden beneath the dented
His truth is marching on
silver metal cake cover to those kitchens in South Georgia where my ancestors
Glory, glory, Hallelujah…..Glory, glory, Hallelujah…….Glory, glory, Hallelujah
cooked chickens alive that morning and baked cakes with fresh-fallen pecans and
His truth is marching on …..
rolled red and green candied fruit in flour to put into our Christmas fruitcakes and
In the beauty of the lilies, Christ was born across the sea
sometimes I think of those dishes with the Cherokee Rose pattern
with a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me
that once stood in the cabinet with all that carnival glass and milk glass that
as He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free
now lives here with me as I wonder about its next stop and sometimes I open an ice
His truth is marching on
cream sandwich and think of the time I ran past Meema to the freezer without hugging her hello first
Glory, glory, Hallelujah
and how that didn’t end well at all and somewhere in all of this, I know
Glory, glory, Hallelujah
they are still strong spirits who come at will and find their way back to Heaven through
Glory, glory, Hallelujah
their own timewrinkled handwriting on the cards in my recipe box
His truth is marching on…..
Oh, Kim – you take my breath away. First the interweaving of the Battle Hymn with your memories of Aunt Jeanie, so recently lost. She could have been one of my own Southern aunts…I feel I know her well and in fact, Dr. Pepper is my lifelong favorite soft drink, having been introduced to me when I was a child by one of my aunts (although I prefer diet DP now; it has a better bite). I recall your previous post on recipes and how the women who created them and used them come back to surround you as you examine their old handwriting; those cards being tattered remnants, intricate pieces, of their daily living. They are passports to another time now. My heart sings glory, glory hallelujah as I read this – for the richness of your memory, so alive here, for the old-time cakes, the carnival glass, the ill-fated ice cream sandwich, and for the love that marches on beyond constraints of time. I am absolutely awed. And empowered for the living of this day.
Kim, wow, I absolutely live how you weave the music throught your memories. I can see the milk glass, smell the aromas baking in the kitchen, and feel the trouble you were in when rushing to get an ice cream sandwich. Incredibly moving, powerful poem! Gorgeous!
Oh, oh, oh! From your title with the visual interest of faded angels to the ghosts marching out between lyrics of song to the milk glass and its next stop (I had the same conversation this week with my mother over the milk glass passed to me from a great grandmother) to the added commentary that didn’t end well – I was with you through all the glory of your ghostangels. The value of timewrinkled handwriting cannot be measured and yet you do just that in the sifting memories, teaspooned into your poem.
Kim, these songs and lyrics interspersed throughout your memory of kitchen angels are a stroke of genius. They, in a sense, work as a recipe for remembering. I love the way lyrics and memory commingle, march into our mind, trot out into this space through your creative genius. Yesterday my sister asked me for the one recipe we have from our mother, and they, of course, evolved several memories from my metal box. I might need to write about it. I love this last image most: “timewrinkled handwriting on the cards in my recipe box” and am a bit sad thinking about what our digital age means for future generations and those old recipes.
Kim – my oh my!! I can taste and hear this whole memory! I love the interplay of these songs alongside the recipe box. The sensory images of memory in here are so sharp and specific – the caracmel and chocolate layer cakes under the silver dented cover. There’s a whole tone, mood, story, memory mix happening here that I just really love. Thanks for taking me to your aunt’s kitchen today!
Kim,
So clever, so rich. The alternating lines really really work. Your lines reach fever pitch right along with the lines to the oh so powerful hymn.
I love the merged words . . . ghostangels (because connotation DOES matter) and timewrinkled (because it’s the PERFECT description of handwriting.
Kim, one more common experience! When I hear the hymns I see specific congregants singing with their eyes closed, tears rolling their cheeks or hands raised! Your poem brought it back “Forte” and you interspersed the lyrics from one of the more powerful hymns that one sees/hears sung in so many settings. WOW!
You have woven a glorious story of food and faith and music. Thank you so much!
Glenda – Wilkinson’s poem – it’s now a part of me. Affixed to my soul. Thank you for that and for the incredible poem on reading your father. It is mesmerizing. I can see him and his hands “reading” his children as they grew. I see young you in your sailor dress, reading him, interpreting him and his gestures, his actions…yet where there may have been bitterness, he retained a sense of humor with the children. Perfect ending scene, perfect lyricality throughout.
The prompt is so compelling. Ghosts. I have so much more to write around that. Had to make myself rein it in for now…
In the Night
When I crawl into bed
to rest my weary bones at last
I have a sense of her
the way she tucked me in
heard my prayers
kissed my forehead
in successive repetition
soft as wing-flutters
I hear her voice
when the lights go out
and darkness first envelops:
Don’t worry, Honey
in a minute
your eyes will adjust
you’ll be able to see
and I see her
in the night
a drifting wraith
in her thin pale gown
bathed in silver moonlight
floating into Granddaddy’s room
where I sleep
on the little cot by his bed
listening to the rhythms of
his mighty snores
for she always rises
in the darkest part
to check my coverings
sometimes caressing my head
or patting my leg
before drifting back out
to her own room
where snoring
cannot reach
she is never far
even now
and for all the brightness
she brought to my days
she is near, so near,
in the night.
Fran, I am in constant awe at your ability to create the most beautiful images with the narratives you share with us. It’s a gift each time I travel your words. This time, I want to stay within the second stanza, rest within the wing-flutters of the repeating kisses. What a gentle moment, a soft tucking to carry with me throughout the day.
Fran, what an incredibly moving poem. Your tender words are like your mother’s tender touch. Your words create an etheral world of love that envelops the past and yet still remains. Love the ending repetition. Stunning and provacative poem!
Fran, this poem has such a gentle touch to our ears and eyes. It’s a caress for the soul and so evocative of childhood memories. “she is never far…she is near, / in the night.” Perhaps it’s the silence, the cloaking of the day that makes this nearness in the dark possible. Beautiful.
I love this poem and especially “soft as wing flutters”. You have placed me as a young child in that room listening to the “mighty snores”.
Fran, your words always draw a scene and bring us into the moment, back to the past of childhood where our resilience was built with reassuring words like these
Don’t worry, Honey
in a minute
your eyes will adjust
you’ll be able to see
…from those who showed us the way and assured us everything would be okay.
And even now, we know to wait for a minute and we will adjust. We will be able to see in the dark.
Powerful magic, your words!
I love this idea of a comforting night spirit. You convey your grandmother’s gentleness with the quotes, with the soft touch, and I just love that last stanza :”she is near, so near in the night.” That is a powerful image that has stuck with you and you share so beautifully. Thank you for this!
These lines resonated with me:
“I hear her voice
when the lights go out
and darkness first envelops”
Kevin
Fran,
I love how you have made this about her being woven into the now as opposed to the being gone. She has become more of a spiritual force than a memory.
Hi Fran, another treasure! You inspire me. I love the images that you evoked in this poem. I’m in love with this:
I laughed a little because when I was married, my ex snored so much I put him out the room when we had an empty nest. I think that was the beginning of the end, LOL, I didn’t need all that noise or his nonsense anymore.
But back to your poem, love ? love ? love!!
ooooh, Glenda! This was a great prompt for my journal writing today. It confirms the project I have been thinking about for poetry month. Now, I can’t wait. My mother had diabetes and she lived in fear of losing her eyes and feet. Your Dad found ways to be loving and involved in your life by literally staying in touch. What a beautiful poem and tribute to him.
I wrote a haibun — which I’m not sharing the whole thing. Just the haiku at the end.
writing in flowers
summer forgets to mind time
letters for someday
Linda, I love a haiku and especially that this is a peek into a lengthier work you have written. Writing in flowers is a lovely image! It reminds me of the poem
by Mary Oliver, where her dog writes in the snow as he runs – a very favorite of mine. And now this – flowers with messages to all of us. You have a masterpiece here!
Summer does forget to mind time…and I think of the temporary nature of seasons, and flowers, and this comparison to writing, and what springs to mind (not to mix seasons!) is “gather ye rosebuds while ye may”… which i am now interpreting as write, write, write your moments while you can…
Linda, I can’t wait for summer to write in flowers once more. This is the perfect image for a February day that holds just a hint of spring warmth and for a gardener longing for summer’s return. Each word you’ve shared is mindfully placed (and planted) and makes me yearn for the rest of your haibun!
Linda, this is beautiful. I love the image of flowers as summer’s writing. It reminds me of “Where Have All the Flowers Gone?” I’m glad the prompt inspired you.
Linda, how I longgggggg to be in the summer where minding time is forgotten!
I’m intrigued! I want to read the haibun and I want all the details about poetry month. I’m nosey. LOL.
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Tea spoon clatters
against my favorite
mug and I’m back, then,
to hearing the sound of
great-grandmother’s chatter,
the heat of her tiny place
cranked so hot it could melt
the pat of butter
on slightly burnt toast
she’s serving me, along with
a side of story, of family,
of childhood, of hardship,
of Irish roots, in verse and song,
so that even in the remembering,
I’m savoring her every sound
before it’s gone
This is beautiful. It takes me back to sitting in my Granny’s kitchen when I was a girl, and she would be whipping up something for us to eat. Chatter in the kitchen was always welcome, and was just part of the life of a little girl growing up in a large family.
I am not surprised that one small sound, teaspoon against mug, should call back scenes of such glorious detail, for a musician. The sound, a note in the song of life. Poetry IS sound and yours is Incredibly vivid. I can see, hear, feel, smell, taste it all. And I sense the longing.
Kevin, yes! Whoa! This part right here:
the heat of her tiny place
cranked so hot it could melt
the pat of butter
on slightly burnt toast
just wow. Those same ghosts come to my kitchen, too. That pat of butter and my heart are one right now.
Kevin, the tea spoon clatter functions as a knell here, alerting us to what has come to pass while setting the scene for all the sounds (chatter), feels (butter melting heat), tastes (burnt toast) of what was. Beautiful.
Kevin, I love your focus on sound here. The heat radiates and I can see the burnt toast. Reminds me if my own grandmother who wansn’t the best cook.
Ken, this is a lovely memory of great grandmother dishing up family history w/ team “even in the remembering,
I’m savoring her every sound” is a beautiful line. Now I’m thinking of similar experiences w/ my great grandmother.
Kevin, I love all the sound images in your poem. It’s amazing how the sound of a spoon in a mug can conjure so many ghosts. Just reading your poem filled my room with some very special people. I want to hear the “verse and song” that you hear.
Kevin,
The sound of that spoon that elicits such a memory. Sounds can sure do that if we let them. You sure do.
I love the sounds your words conjure – spoon clatters, chatter, the images of slightly burnt toast and the end savoring her every sound – sweet memories
Kevin — The tenderness here is beautiful… “savoring her every sound/before it’s gone.” Love the burnt toast, the heat in the house, and the sounds… you always master the sounds. Love it. Susie
I doubt the Glenda had a ghost of the idea that today would be “grandparent” day in our poems. What a blessing to have so many fond memories that evoked memories of so many of us! Thanks, Kevin, for sharing the way that other senses quicken the “ghosts” of more than Christmases past!
Kevin, you’ve honored your great-grandmother well. I am sure she’s sending love to you right now. I experienced all of the rich sensory details like I was right there with you. There’s never enough time to savor sounds because we don’t realize that they’ll one day be gone. This is beautiful: