Grandpa is watching me as I scoop up the dust of his body and scatter it across America. Parts of him are floating in creeks and lakes and waterfalls. Parts of him are blowing in the red desert. Parts of him are drifting between the fiery leaves of eastern Autumn. But even as his body dissipates, pouring between my fingers, we feel the entirety of him, propping us up, we feel the full weight of his absence leaning on our shoulders.
One year after his death, he appears to me in a dream, smiling mysteriously. He has a tiny plant in his hands and even though there are suspicious eyes peering at us on all sides in this shadowy underworld, I squat and dig my fingers into the soil. I dig a small hole in the earth and sprinkle a handful of his ashes in the opening. Grandpa hands me the plant, and I tuck it in, covering and patting its roots gently. It's the smallest little thing, but it feels important — he's picked the exact spot for this unassuming little plant to flourish, its tiny roots pressing through the rubble of his bones.
It's been one year, Grandpa, but your presence has yet to diminish.
Different Dust
Sunday, October 19, 2014
Thursday, March 13, 2014
Things that are wonderful.
Seeing your trajectory in life slowly take shape in
front of you, but still reveling in endless possibility, being available for
the little things, the first blossoms of spring, picnics, having a beer with an
old friend, knowing pay day is just around the corner, transplanting seedlings,
the anticipation of summer produce, people watching, animal watching, hawks,
baby goats, slowly winning a llama’s trust, sore forearms, sore shoulders, texts
that make you laugh out loud, stumbling across strange and wonderful art
projects, understanding your dreams, validation, reading books for fun, sharing
books, being okay with uncertainty, lists, having an endlessly loving
grandmother, the kind of nostalgia that makes you glad you have memories, day
planners, feeling organized, pesto, small space living, the sounds of Bob
Marley and rain all mixed up together, terms of endearment, personal growth, reaching.
Sunday, January 5, 2014
Solitude.
Solitude means answering that ominous knock that comes in the midnight of your unconscious, means listening to the wavering decibels of your own voice; being alone means you don’t have to hold yourself in contrast to the other, to scrutinize the purple flaws of your skin and the achy gaps in your character, to count the lapses of judgment accumulated in your history, which you wear all across your shoulders, tangled in your hair. Instead, being alone means letting all the events of your past, all your loud regrets rest, simply exist in stillness, factual and whole and okay.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)