Thoughts Have Hands

Roar with anger

Scream at the absurd 

Yell at the ridiculous

Damn the disease.

Turn your head into a basketball 

Bang it against the living room wall 

Bruise balled fists on the dining table 

Slam the door

Cry for the unfairness of her loss.

Fuck the pain

Hate justifications

And proverbial bullshit.

She lived by her heart

And gave herself to teach her art.

When cancer attacked

She fought back with vigor, 

did everything right.

Her death a judgement on the eternal 

When love gives her heart. 

To be hospitable, loving and careful, then

Nothing tried helps her get any better.

She bowed to forces of Mother Nature. 

For those who will miss her,

Knew her, and loved her,

She lived the adventure with loyal intention.

Her nature a gift to all creation.

THH

5/5/25

Pictures on the wall covered in dust.

Faces framed to impress rare guests,

Dressed to invite conversation.

My grandmother young, poised and demure,

wears her best off shoulder gown.

Her husband composed in a stiff collar projects

a dignified vision and solemn manner. 

Enshrined by the late owner as a sign of respect, hang precariously from yellowed plaster.

Her house a tattered dress

worn by more than a few generations,

full of good will and solid intentions.

Rooms furnished in early seventies chic,

adorned with the occasional antique,

threadbare and in need of much attention.

Shades of unmet expectations

mock her fate from nooks and crannies.

Nicknacks of imagined value, saved for posterity.

Degrees from higher educational institutions displayed with pride,

useless now.

Wall posters advertise her artful designs.

Work done and awards won

rest idle on shelves and end tables.

An uncurated museum

of ancient generations carefully researched,

no longer holds a living interest.

Stores of unrealized ambitions and incomplete projects stacked around for an eventual archaeological excavation.

Photos on a flash drive

flip past my eyes;

one old family photo after another. 

Memories recorded and no longer relevant.

Attempts by the late owner to catch and hold

that fleeting instant, long ago,

The fair haired child

smiled on by family,

as she played the guitar,

and performed her ice skating routines, 

The leap, the fall, but now the dance is over,

Frozen in death past giving 

As mountain snow dissolves in spring rain.

Walking the hall

Checking her bedroom,

Looking for necessities for those still living 

No thing speaks. 

Silence crowns tomb-like space and

Every item carries dead weight. 

Nostalgia noses its way into my mind,

Creates distraction,

Raises questions of different ends:

What should be saved,

what would it mean, 

What value remains after her loss

in mementos of the lost

And a beautiful life left in dust,

never mine.

THH

5/23/25

Image

And her holding onto old parts of her life

Storage bend

My bedside manner on display,

Quiet and unassuming, 

I wait for an unprescribed end.

Play hide and seek. No hope to win.

Forbidden deviations by the soon to be departed, 

I review instructions meant to keep faith with dying wishes.

Hospital utility flashes technology,

sounds warning bells,

blinks lights of recognition,

signals hope, offers rafts of data to the living.  But

Silence hangs over her bed,

Save the intake of an occasional deep breath,

our world turned simple and pointedly small.

Hospice curtains swing in air conditioning,

A chaplain drops in.

A welcome respite, 

heavy with realization, and

Restrained importance,

Tired of explaining, 

Tired of dealing with this  ‘oh so’ common human drama, unable to explain founding facts by analysis or reason. 

Reduced by her disease to iron resignation,

She dies a bit angry and disappointed.  Wistful of the stingy nature of time, she drifts into night, resolute in spirit and full of courage.

While her worldly friends sit and fret,

Watch for signs,

A miracle, 

A rewind, 

A reboot, 

Willing to beg for indications of new directions.

The clock ticks unfathomed depths of emptiness, slowly closes once open doors.

Time’s middle finger stiffens the back. 

A raw meat moment stirred by her irregular exhale, born of morphine,

Regret pasted on, we look with curious attention into her pale, placid face once animated by an eager smile.

Remember a rendezvous and fun times of engagement,

Memories of Scotland, sundry debates, hours of skating and hundreds of students, leaping and twirling, soaring high on Zephyr smooth ice.

With each indignant exhale from her late healthy body,

gray with betrayal;

the human predicament looms opaque as dust.

I sit with the drip of drug induced snores,

Peer into her mouth, gaping wide at still living,

No longer interested in conversation,

Open to release from competition,

Unimpressed by argument,

Overwhelmed by days of unrest,

She lives inside a self induced trance.

I practice smiles for her public; I watch the mystery of human performance and consider what matters: People come touch her skin, shed a tear, sad for their loss; People come timid and brave, say goodbye, sense her absence.

Weighed down by distress, I contemplate her willing leap into silence. Observe her sleep from a distance.

I begin to wonder, has death taken a vacation?

Imagine him entering the rink, take off across the ice, circle her to perform a routine, skating black ice,

Needing a great performance to entice her interest,

To tempt her with a swizzle, a lunge and a double axel,

Offer his hand to spin her around, invite her to perform a long death spiral with graceful posture,

Practiced at judging a skater routine wisely, she is weary and a bit wary, always the teacher.

His leaps and spins, catches her attention,

Beckons her to regale him with tales of teaching numerous ice skaters,

She describes well done pirouettes, gliding movement, and special routines,

He reels her into his eternal spin, out of life’s spiral.

And finally letting go, she lands her dream of a triple axle, takes a bow,

kisses the ice,

And waves goodbye to the love of her life.

THH

5/1/25