Barbies

I've never written about the barbies before tonight and I am not sure why.

When Dylan died, we struggled with how much we should involve Sierra and we made a few mistakes, but we did manage to do something right when we included her in the funeral. She was only four years old at the time, but on some level I think we both understood that losing her brother was going to affect her for a long time too and we owed her as much of a sense of closure as we could pull off. So the morning of his funeral was cool, but there was that underlying sense of urgency-- that knowledge that it was going to get warm fast and would indeed be a hot day by the afternoon. The three of us left the apartment and headed towards Tumalo. We had to be there before everyone else, but we also wanted to stop by Safeway to drop off my prescription for pain medication and to get a light breakfast for Sierra (melon, I can still remember that I ate some and I was hungry enough that it tasted okay to me). Jason was also looking for a silver dollar, but the banks were not open. He wanted to throw it in the ground with Dylan (to pay for his crossing). Anyway we got out to Tumalo and the undertaker (Steve) was already there. He had this green astroturf looking stuff around the hole and Dylan's casket was lying across this brace type thing (not sure what it is really called, or even how else to describe it. It is so that the casket can be above ground and can be seen-- this thing holds it up.) There were twenty or twenty five folding chairs in front of the casket. We made some uncomfortable small talk with Steve for awhile and then people began arriving. Greg and Marissa and Syd and Achia were some of our people. As soon as Sierra saw her little friends (Marissa and Achia), she pulled her barbies out of her bag and those three little girls sat in the dirt in front of Dylan's casket and began playing together. Everything about that day was surreal to me, but the sweetness of those little girls all dressed up, sitting in that dirt pretending, helped me cope and got me through the day.

Isolation

Holding onto loneliness
isn't courageous
or noble
like the few people in the royal family
society actually likes,
it is just empty and sad
like having to eat by yourself day after day
with nobody to talk to.

Being alone with your demons
must be what it is like to be mentally ill for a little while.

Casualty

Just the twisted body
of a raven
on the sidewalk near the Methodist Church.
Insignificant in the grand scheme of things I guess,
but enough to make my daughters pause
as we silently pass by.
No mention is made
but we look at each other sadly
and that is enough.

I was glad to see John Kerry in Central Point recently, but I wished he had taken some questions from his constituents. I have one burning question for him. My question is this; "Do you think you understand what it is like to be low income in America today, and do you understand some of the challenges the poor face?"

There is no correct answer to this question. The only way to really understand poverty is to be poor.

Until you find yourself standing in line in a welfare office, waiting for an intake appointment, or in line at the grocery store with an Oregon Trail card (food stamps) in your pocket, you cannot understand what poverty does to people. It chips away at your self worth. It takes away your anger, your pride, your self worth and whittles it all down until you are complacent and accepting.

We used to hop in Jason's old green Pinto and drive up to the mountain on August nights like this one. We'd bring a pint of Haggen Daz and one spoon, some Pepsi and my notebook so that I could write if the muse decided to visit. And a flashlight. We also brought our hopes and dreams 'cause that was back when we still had some. We still go out at night, but now we are restricted to the parking lot in front of our apartment in case the kids wake up while we are gone. We still watch the moon together, sans notebook and flashlight and spendy ice cream.

Detachment

When life penetrates you
with cumbersome,
mind numbing, sadness.
And
deserted by hope,
you find yourself isolated
from beauty.
Remember this.
Push on.
Hang on.
Continue.
Trust fearlessly.

What I really want to write about is how I want to be able to think about my son without feeling that sharp pain of loss. You'd think I would be there by now, but it still hurts. I was thinking about how this time of the year it is all magnified. I miss him. I wish I had gotten a chance to feel his fuzzy little head underneath my chin and heard him cry just once. And wiggle-- I wish I could have seen him move, even if it had just been for a short time. I think that is one of the cruelest things about stillbirth, is that some people think it is somehow easier, because I did not get a chance to really, really know him. But I had the mourn the loss of that chance too-- on top of missing him and mourning for him and loving him.

These are the things I know Dylan heard. He listened to most of the Complete Works of Winnie the Pooh-- I was able to give him that. He heard his dads voice. He listened to many episodes of Seinfield (in utero) while I was lying down counting his movements and his kicks. I am also certain that he heard Sierra's voice. She and I talked to him daily. I hope that he heard birds and laughter and music. I hope that he heard how much we all loved him. That is probably my biggest wish other than wishing him back to us.

It's Friday night and the rest of the house is asleep. Probably kind of a bad thing for me to be left alone with my thoughts. Less than ten days until Dylan's birthday/anniversary of his death. I seriously hate the month of August. Every year J and I say we are going to just run away for the month and I wish that had been possible this year. I want to just hide out and be left alone.

When you really start to look around at other people, you see that almost everybody has scars from something. We think we are so good at hiding them, but if you really look, you can catch glimpses of what hurts them the most. I think we are equally good at choosing to not see this... It is hard to witness pain. It's interesting to me though, how we all go about our daily lives pretending to always be okay (whatever that means). We are all so lonely together.

I think that this is why people get married. We are desperate for other people to really know us, that we will even let one other person in deep enough to see our flaws. Humans are daring that way.

Name Dropping with John Kerry

In fierce heat, we waited like cattle
while rock songs played
(oh but the 80's were good)
and we tried to believe that things would change
while clutching signs and chanting.

And then you appeared.

You spoke of change. Of honesty.
Of valuing families.

We wanted to believe.

Longing for the days of John F Kennedy
we watched you tie your white horse to the fencepost
and hoped that you listened too.

Accompany

Sometime after midnight
when the August air has only slightly cooled off the valley
but the stars are bright and ready
there is just the sounds of something sliding down the trunk of the plum tree
and the hum of crickets.

And I am less lonely than at any other time.

August Nights

We rally for meteor showers
and summer rain
after days of hundred degree temperatures
and feverish sun.

Not knowing answers
does not reduce our longing
to be seen
to be heard.

Invisible
we crave
and hunger for someone
anyone--
to lift the mask up.

Ignited
our liberation from summer will go on.

Perseid Meteor Shower is peaking as I type. I have been outside several times this evening and it is spectacular. The stars look like they are jumping across the sky. Just beautiful. At about 4 am, Jason, the kids and I are going to Briscoe school-- we will lie down in the field and watch it until daybreak.

Grief is like quicksand. A person mourns, talks about their feelings and thinks they have worked through their grief. And then you are standing in line at the supermarket and out of the corner of your eye, you see a little boy who is just the age and size your son would be if he hadn't died, or someone catches you off guard and asks about the headstone that rests in your garden and it takes you right back to the rawness of it. That awful pain and envelope of fresh loss. It's like stepping in quicksand. At first you think you are fine, but you quickly realize that you are in trouble and nobody can help you get out. The only way out is by your own wit. There is nothing more lonely than being trapped in quicksand. Or in grief.

we connect as
haphazardly as stars in the sky

A Craving for Comprehension

Either there aren't enough poems written about passion
or maybe all poetry is an outburst of words
and emotions. Obsessions with the small things
most other people miss.
Ordinary things exalted
like the softness of the summer sky
at about ten at night.

Not just a sky, no.
Rapture for common folk.

Just pay attention.

Anniversary

This should be a month for parties
little boy trains and cartoon characters
and whatever it is that six year old boys like
whatever you would like best
instead there are crushed dreams
and silence
and huge pain that I run away from,
festering deep.

The night you entered this world
I held you for hours
and told you about your family.
On one hand I knew that it was
the only "earth time", you and I would get
and yet I couldn't really fathom what that really meant.
I didn't understand death.
Maybe I still don't.

I'd give anything to be making a birthday cake
with six candles on it this year.

Thunderbird Park

Trailer heaped upon trailer
until-it-is-so-tight-in-here-that-even
the smallest
grassy yard looks park-like in comparison.

You can bring your assumptions in with you
about poverty and laziness
but talk to the small woman in number eleven for five minutes
and you'll realize
our similarities
are as numerous
as the broken cars that line the street.

Migrant Camp

Dusty roads lead in
encircle
and then head somewhere back out again
but not until you pass the bunkhouse
that sleeps forty
or the small littered cabins
that sleep three or four
per unit
and you notice the heat
as it rises from the dusty road
and lands on the sweaty brows of men from Mexico
by way of California
who greet you with a few words.
Hola, Cómo es usted? Muy bien.
A wave of the hand and a smile
because the work begins tomorrow, lunes
and these men who are anxious to start working
are as grateful for the jobs
as we are for the slight breeze that suddenly sneaks down into camp.