One hundred pitchers of honey

After Jack Gilbert

The last grandkid’s birthday for which Dad was here on Earth was one year ago this past Sunday, September 22nd.

How fascinating, of all of the words I know, there are none that convey how much Dad would have loved to have seen Leo ride his new two-wheel bike.

I say he was doing his breathing thing and I fell asleep and then he was gone; my brain asks what are you prioritizing as systems and institutions are crumbling: both the synopsis and the question miss the mark.

Thursday, September 29th, 2023, I think in a quiet moment, while Ansel, close to sleep, asks who said the first word: on which date was it said?

Will words and dates ever be weighted in such a way that represents their significance? The Sunday before my dad died, September 24th, he’d eaten pizza and watched the Packers. 

That was one year ago this day, today. His health had been way above average for his age.

The Friday before that, the lights had been too bright and he’d sat chatting with us, his fleece hat pulled over his eyes.

It was the end of his life, and yet these facts are all just small details.

He is not coming back to sit at my table and have coffee with me; he is not going to pick up when I call; I can’t call; we are not going to walk across the street and visit Jerry just to be nice: these facts are herons standing abreast on Island Lake with the sky behind them.

My ears hear “no, that is a good way to do that” to squash my self-doubt while hanging his picture on my fence. I am brought to my knees: this I can say.

Each memory I have of his “cares” is a five-gallon bucket full of honey.

We drove out to the coast last night. While Ansel set up a driftwood juice shack, Imogen cartwheeled and danced in the waves. That he is not here has my heart in a vice grip.

Imogen, Ansel, Ocean: my words keep trying to get it right.