At the end of February I closed the door on my father's loft. I had done what I could do. I had sorted and argued, joked and cried with my brothers going through my parents' art work and possessions. I have received my portion of objects and have unpacked and absorbed the furniture, art and books into our lives. It is lovely to see how things I grew up with have infiltrated and inspired my vision. The blue and white albarello was often on the dining room table with tulips or forsythia.
All night
I float
in the shallow ponds
while the moon wanders
burning, bone white,
among the milky stems. Once
I saw her hand reach
to touch the muskrat's
small sleek head
and it was lovely, oh,
I don't want to argue anymore
about all the things
I thought I could not
live without! Soon
the muskrat
will glide with another
into their castle
of weeds, morning
will rise from the east
tangled and brazen,
and before that
difficult and beautiful
hurricane of light
I want to flow out
across the mother
of all waters,
I want to lose myself
on the black and silky currents,
yawning, gathering
the tall lilies
of sleep.
--Mary Oliver
As I packed my art work today I recycled all the materials we used to pack my father's sculpture. The bits of handwriting on the recycled boxes remind me of how I can't go back to that life. I have been dreaming about Dad and wanting to ask so many questions. It's almost a year since his heart attack. I play back the last phone calls, the patterns of questions, answers and misunderstanding. In the late afternoon humid hours my memory climbs ladders up and down to keep track of the years. My various forms of self dissolve as I step forward. I am awake and listen for the call of the future. The call of the road is singing my name like the earliest birds at dawn.
All night
I float
in the shallow ponds
while the moon wanders
burning, bone white,
among the milky stems. Once
I saw her hand reach
to touch the muskrat's
small sleek head
and it was lovely, oh,
I don't want to argue anymore
about all the things
I thought I could not
live without! Soon
the muskrat
will glide with another
into their castle
of weeds, morning
will rise from the east
tangled and brazen,
and before that
difficult and beautiful
hurricane of light
I want to flow out
across the mother
of all waters,
I want to lose myself
on the black and silky currents,
yawning, gathering
the tall lilies
of sleep.
--Mary Oliver
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