Memorial Day

May 26, 2019									

Clouds run down the sky to the western horizon,
	Solid ceiling across the valley to the coast,
Mountains obscured in mist,
	Fronds of chestnut and big-leaf maple unmoved,
No whisper of breeze, it’s not quite warm,

The whine of distant mowers drift 
	From houses down below, and traffic noise
From River Road but muted, insular, 
        The big Doug Fir across the street is writhing 
With a litter of young squirrels at play, a crow
        Lands on the topmost branch of a towering cedar,
Watching over her realm,

It’s Memorial Day, but I am not remembering the dead,
	But their living, breathing selves are with me here; 
Never my mother’s protracted, agonized departure,
	But I hear her singing Ella’s scat in the kitchen, 
The smell of bacon frying and the dark warm waft 
	Of coffee percolating, as sun beams through the window
And jazz echoes in the stairwell, “Sam, breakfast!”
	And never my father’s mysterious disappearance and
Death unattended in the desolate Keys,
	But sitting in his chair by the stereo hi-fi, Camel in
One hand, trying to convince his recalcitrant teen
	That Errol Garner was a genius. It took years for me to hear it,
But he was right, and I listen now. Now I know.

And Gramp Howard lining up
	The croquet ball and wicket, not
Straddling the ball as we all did, but
	Addressing it like a golf putt, 
Left hand on his knee to support an arthritic back,
	With his right he draws the mallet back,
And how he teases, “Hey Jimmy, how’s Barbie Booth?” he’ll ask,
	Having married me off early, 
While Nana Theresa chatters on in her living room filled with tchotchkes
	And incessant non-stop tales of family and Ireland,
And Uncle Martin with a ready smile and a can of Schlitz,
	Aunt Marnie with lipstick-stained Viceroy filter and pointy rhinestone glasses,
Uncle Ed, Big Ed the sheriff, stogies smelled like dog turds
	In the back seat of his Country Squire, windows closed,
Connie in the front seat trying to keep a lid on
	The cousins fighting in the back.

And Ann in her scattershot life, rambling
	Around Europe, or North Africa, or the islands,
Awash with a strong mix
	Of hope and cynicism,  
Wisdom and sarcasm, racing through town 
	In a battered red Karman Ghia,

And Susan, so quietly delinquent, her talent
	And her understated passions-
					She picked up the guitar 
				Shortly after I, a Yamaha
			Classical with nylon strings, and
		Within a short time she played
	So much better.

And Paige and Fredora and Bob
	Drinking mid-afternoon Budweiser in the kitchen
At Gramp Garland’s farm,	cigarette smoke 
Clouding under a nicotine-stained ceiling,
Listening to Patty Page on a brown plastic Zenith tabletop radio,
	Gramp in the parlor, taciturn, ancient, 
With his corn-cob pipe and wire-rimmed glasses,
	And his General MacArthur looks,
	
And all the rest, all the rest.

And I think of all the living, all those
	With me now,
How we courageously face an uncertain future together,
        I feel so fortunate to have been
Given the grace and opportunity to have
	Lived in the world as it has been, and the 
Miracle of having had a chance to love;
        And having love returned,

And imagine, too, having had the chance
        Of taking existence, and freedom, for granted,
For such a long time,  
        What privilege, what riches.