He asked, “Why haven’t you ever given me a painting?”
I said, “I did, baby—a long time ago. It was a sunset. I even wrote something on the back.”
“What?” he asked.
I replied, “The things I leave behind—the sunset and you.”
He smiled, quietly sighed, and said, “That explains why I don’t remember it.”
A poem I wrote on 1/25/2020
Prone to elaborate rituals–
a perfectly fastidious disease,
she clasps her hands tightly,
then whispers, "one, two, three".
Bowing her head in deliberate silence;
and crossing her mouth three times,
she releases her petition upward
with spirals of frankincense, pleas,
and please, please, please."
Swirls of Fragrance and Smoke
A year ago last autumn,
on a day much like today
I released him and
into the ether, he went...
his image—the one most like him,
the one with the old tan hat.
Among the golden
fall leaves and flowers
interwoven with bright scarlet thread
and raffia, his arms and his torso,
I reverently wrapped.
I nestled his image,
within a red paper boat.
Then setting the leaves and
his vessel, I set afloat
onto the glistening river
of this small town
he always called “home”.
Away into the current he traveled--
under the warmth of the
Indian Summer sun.
And as I watched in the distance,
the patch of red, I could see
I imagined, his spirit uplifted
into swirls of fragrance and smoke.
Finally after 40 years
I truly released him,
but to the God
whom he always knew.
A poem I wrote today, 11/6/2021, a year and a day after my personal farewell to Mr. White. Thank you, Dr. S for accompanying me.