Thoughts Have Hands

Heroes

You don’t have to be a hero,

Past accomplishments don’t have to hang like medals from your shirt,

Or sit like trophies on your mantle.

Heroes are rare creatures,

Often fragile

when questioned or criticized,

Needing praise to stay afloat.

Human is good enough.

The dragon may have ruled the day.

The journey may have gone all down hill.

The life lived may be less than thrill after thrill.

The world uninterested in your creativity.

But return home humble

With open heart

Scars showing the thorny paths taken,

Being human will have made of you

A unique piece of living art.

I

Am

So

Sad

And

So

Damn

Angry

Empty

A tea kettle

Sans

Water

Scorched with flame

Metal ready to fold in on itself,

Waiting spitefully for someone to take hold and scream.

Hollowed out by loss

And dangerous to the touch

To ready to fill up with bitterness and rage.

I need

time and

A

Place

To

Drink strong tea

And be comforted by a child’s play

And innocent ways

THH

12/2/17

The Day After Kristen
(April 1, 1971 – November 20, 2017)

Kristen missed her wake up call this morning. She would have been annoyed.

But then she didn’t have to go to work today.

I found her IPhone ringing persistently in her bag at 6 am; she couldn’t turn it off.

I stepped outside.
The sun seemed happy to be up.
Can’t say I agreed.
The air,
chilly and crisp,
said breathe.
I tried.
The sky had an air of invitation about it. I wasn’t sure I could accept.

But then this is a day Kristen would have enjoyed – No relished!
She loved Fall.

On this day, Kristen would have put on a big knit sweater and happily taken her dogs for a walk in the park.
She would have dreamed of fixing up her fireplace and sipping a glass of bourbon in front of it some day.

Today she might have planned lunch with any number of friends. And later she would have settled into her chair, pens and highlighter at the ready, computer warming her lap, and busily start checking on this and that for the next big project at her new home. She might have spent part of the day shopping for home accessories on the internet.

But today Kristen’s house sits unfinished; Elsie and Oliver are still waiting for her. I don’t know how to tell them Kristen won’t be back.

She seems to have found a new address where there are no rooms to paint and no walls to decorate.

She won’t be texting or answering our emails either. And we can forget about the Facebook posts with the orange and white themed photos.

We will have to settle for memories to remind us of her cheerful banter and no nonsense attitude, her plain sense of decency and justice, and fierce loyalty to family and friends alike.

But memories are poor substitutes for Kristen’s wit.

Today Kristen is on the other side, whatever that means; and none of us can reach her anymore. The world feels empty like her fireplace, where no fire burns; and there are not enough sweaters to keep off the chill.

Even with the sunshine, this day drips with loss, cold to the touch and easily broken, like melting icicles.

Or maybe this is just cover for the cold sobs I’m having trouble controlling right now. No surprise.

Then I can imagine Kristen bristling at the drama and thinking get over it.

The world promises us nothing,
I know. I get it.

But outside, right now, I can’t help but feel like I’m standing on thin ice, to fragile to dare to cross.

I won’t be hearing her laugh or eagerly say, oh good, time to plan the annual Christmas Eve party.

We know how to do a party mostly because she enjoyed decorating and setting the table. Peggy and Kristen worked together like old friends more than mother and daughter. It was a treat to watch as they tried out different Christmas arrangements around the house. Kristen was always playing with new ideas. I learned quickly all I had to do was lift, follow instructions, and stay out of the way.

And the laughter we shared playing Chinese Christmas. Twenty plus adults crammed into our living room around the tree, opening and stealing gifts from each other while making numerous wise cracks. Kristen could always be relied on to find the innovative gift for the letter of the year.

Kristen won’t be planning parties today or tomorrow. She won’t be taking Makenzie to Star Wars in December or babysitting for Claudia and Andy with Julia and Henry. She won’t be texting school friends or planning trips with the Friday night group.

Seems Kristen has adopted a new home somewhere else,
far from here.
We can wave at who we hope she will be,
and blow kisses across the pond to her,

But on this crisp November day all I want to do is cry out in disbelief.

And wonder why or how this day could be.

And then I remember the tough independent woman Kristen grew to be.

Kristen chose to handle her cancer in her own way. She knew what she was doing. She was determined to live free and happy and filled with hope sharing each day she had with her friends and family until the last.

I think she trusted that we could handle it from there.

So I will grieve proudly, and hug those she held close.

I will pray we will all be better some day,

And hope that somewhere just over the horizon,

On a crisp Fall day, Kristen is strolling along,

wrapped in a big fluffy sweater,

shouting out to her team:

Come on.

THH,
November 21, 2017

This poem was read today at St Ann’s Episcopal church. I wrote it this past week reflecting on her death and my deep sense of loss. A few people asked for a copy so I decided to post it here. The memorial service was well attended. Over a hundred friends and family were present. The people of St Ann’s and many of her friends filled the whole experience with grace and meaning. Kristen Deitrick would have been very happy. THH

Old people sit like everywhere is home, tired of pretense,Settled into clothes worn to comfort 

Enjoying habits practiced past all thinking. 
Anytime breakfast-time places,

Arrange memories on walls for them,

Along with quaint stone fireplaces, mantle clocks,

And the ubiquitous frontier rifle 

Assuring a perfect synchronicity of space and time.
A picture of sentiments serve the marketplace of the mind.

Reveries fixed with coffee, bacon, grits and gravy.
Each customer a connoisseur of the way things were suppose to be,

Nodding appreciation to the lost cornucopia of yesterday, 

Recognizing what they thought they knew so well, truths saluted,

The American way carefully on display,

Drawing the road weary traveler to home away from home. 
Memories baked in a savory mix of old time kitsch, 

Leave them staring fondly through windows of time,

Thirsting for more than water

Praying wilted dreams would flower again.
THH 

August 29, 2015

A Wedding blessing
May the happy exhaustion young lovers know, 

encircle you with bliss. 
May the spirit of hospitality conquer all the quarrels and struggles of life.
May your evenings be like purple violets, soft and delicate to the touch. 

And your mornings fill your senses with the smell of fresh coffee, warm bread and tender understandings. 
May you dance joyfully together the tango of life,

leaning in close to catch the rhythm of the other’s soul,

but spin freely on your own two feet. 
May your relationship become like the grape vine, 

binding your hearts into one, 

bursting with spring fruit, 

and the good rich wine of summer. 
May the laughter of children, bless you.
May the bright colors of the autumn to come, 

comfort you with happy detachment.
And the winter snows draw you before warm fires of memory and grace. 
And may the spirit of love that plays hide and seek with us all, catch and hold you from this day forward and evermore. THH 

PS Written sometime ago, posted by Tom Hardin, Sept. 7, 2015. 

Fear rises up on the wings of imagination,

A dragon that fans the hot air of emotion. 

Its spiked tale drags the improbable into vaunted plausibility.

Its ragged edge draws back the curtain of reason, 

Revealing bloody dramas, and a discordant chorus of enemy chants,

familiar or not.

Dragon breath churns disbelief, 

And our point of view into fiery chaos,

Leaving dead bodies back stage, 

As disturbing reminders that our nightmare scenario continues.

chew at the brain like a zombie feast. 

And we hesitate even to leave home after dark,

Or go out armed, suspicious of strangers, 

And ready to fight.

Warily, we hurry home with ready made purchases,

And settle back into our reserved seats,

To watch another well rehearsed installment of the chills and thrills,

Paid for by the fox and hounds of imminent destruction.

Such lives are like the friendly dog gnawing

contentedly on a favorite bone,

Trusted implicitly, ignorant of the possible,

Until that day you return to find her panting and pawing

Over the remnants of favorite pillows and quilt, strewn haphazardly 

across your bedroom floor.

You dive head first into the implausible loss,

Swim furiously against a current of rage,

gasp at what had been, or should be, 

until exhausted and in tears, 

you sink to the floor, and

gaze distractedly over a disordered world.

Numb but still under the magic spell of the dragon’s scary tale.

 
THH By Tom Hardin, Sept. 7, 2015