The Weaning Continues Poem by Bill Galvin

Day lights and dark nights at the house we called home.

There is no established plan;
No timetable;
As I notice this or that, I may move it, or remove it,
Sometimes permanently, if I am able.
All of us, everyone, has their history fade away,
Whether a photo, a letter, or a favorite….. whatever.
It will no longer be here as we transition
From one world to the other;
And the rest of the world moves on, and along.
We, and everything we touch, will soon be dust.
Some things I handle easily,
Some I don’t see anymore, so they stay where they must.
The things we touch by hand all go, to our dismay,
But what we touch with heart, spirit, and mind
Lives on forever in those we leave behind.

I open a drawer…
A small book of someone else’s memory shows itself.
As I flip through, seen are two photos of her, with family,
When we knew nothing of the future waiting
Thirty years from then.
I save the two and toss the rest;
Like my life since I met her, I save the best.
There are more drawers to open, more to come;
But I am prepared and ready to welcome them.

A little at a time… no rush…
Clear-headed decisions are the rule here.

I take down and throw away
Early poems left on the fridge with magnets and tape,
When I left on my long journey from here.
I’ve written a hundred more since then anyway.
I bundle together the poster boards of photo collages;
But I leave them out and accessible,
In case I want to easily view them again.

Her favorite jersey tops are left in plain sight,
Upstairs, just for the while.

I clean the garage of its winter salt, sand, debris,
And small assistive aids she needed.
I summon my objective self to help: He says sure.
Potting bench with work gloves and tools;
Her notes on gardening tips;
Saved watering and feeding tags from prized plants.

And sunroom cleanup is the same, though harder still.
Her favorite place… chairs, and more stuff she needed;
It’s damn difficult; a marathon to be run.
It’s like I’m asking her to leave; but, she knows I’m not;
She tells me it’s what needs to be done.

The hardest room to enter is her “Lady’s Place”;
The room she retreated to for reflection and privacy.
A sanctuary with her books, writing materials, cherished photos;
And so, there, her thoughts, her soft and feminine presence.
This will be the last place I sort through… if ever.

I fold bath towels and the piles don’t look the same as hers.
Did she fold long end first? I don’t know.
Is it sexist to say some women do some basic things
Better than men? And can’t we love them for that anymore?
The world is just searching for meaning in all the wrong places.

My Creator has blessed me with a strong enough body;
And coordination that has prevented major injury;
A bird’s eye view to help keep me on course;
A will to do right in spite of potholes on dark dirt roads;
An eye in the center of my soul to see clearly with…
But, here now, as the head makes do with what remains,
I stammer with false starts, muddled maps, bold claims;
Messages that stall with transmissions disengaged,
Lurching forward and back like a burned-out clutch.
I’ll wait here until He speaks to me again about such and such.
There’s no judgment from Him as I mingle morning meditation
With bottled spirits when the sun goes down.

My days yet to be seen may hold more wonder,
Or the wells may soon run dry;
But I know of all the skies I’ve lived under,
I was a fortunate one, and had hold on a heart of gold;
I saw the gleaming of those eyes;
And saw the smile that calmed seas and quieted thunder.

This may take a while… it remains to be seen.
But I welcome good conversation and insight
From friends and angels; and those fireflies alit at night;
When every few seconds they do light,
And you try to guess where they’ll be next,
As they fly into their darkening milieu,
Where you can intermingle at yard and wooded edge;
And they’ll surround you, and you’ll feel their delights;
As they frolic in their genetic song, and dance for you;
And for each and the other hoping perchance
To send their message, and have it received,
Yet with no promises needed or reciprocal gesture due.

Dusk slowly tiptoes away,
Leaving the outdoors so very dark now;
Overcast, with no moonbeam;
No difference between forest and clearing;
And all you can see, or be, or seem,
Is in the twinkling…
Those star-like twinkles…
In the middle of the deepest, darkened forest night…
There is still to be seen and felt…
A tender, touching twinkle.

7-10-2015