Tribute to a funny and irreverent 90 year old just after her death on Valentine's day. |
Birds refused to halt The birds refused to halt the day you died. The rays held tightly to the mountain range, slinging the sun across the horizon in a celestial somersault, irreverent as laughter at your funeral. Mourners prayed to the heavens to direct the upward flow of your soul, but you tip-toed through the tearful clusters like a sneaky child, reveling in your new-found freedom. You never were one to obey the forces of nature, or the social niceties of man. Why do proper mourners believe they must wail at the loss of you, as if the tenor of their lament was a fair tribute to your worth? Like a giggle beneath my somber shell, your flame flickers inside the souls of all who treasured you for your imperfections, not simply your contributions. Give me your flicker any day to their public displays of anguish. If they knew you, they would understand that to honor you is to fly, un-tethered, even in rain and wind, and to laugh, especially then. Birds refused to halt their flight the day you died and I couldn’t help but smile at their irreverence. They knew you well. SWPoet Dedicated to my great-grandmother who died on Valentine's Day (1997), ironic as she generally disliked men. She did have a wry sense of humor. (see "When Life Gives You Chicken Livers"-also in the memoir folder for more about this funny and only slightly sarcastic woman.) (Original version below. ) birds refused to halt birds refused to halt their flight the day you died the rays held tightly, slinging the sun in a somersault across the horizon, like laughter at your funeral mourners prayed for gravity to stall the drift of your soul, and you, like the mist, silently rolled past grieving clusters of loved ones, off and away to unseen adventures, you, never one to obey the forces of nature somewhere, your light remains inside of the ones you've touched, like a giggle beneath the somber surface that is I, while some feel they must wail with loss of you as if the sound of this lament coincides with your value here on earth my friend, I will take your flicker any day to the silent cries of anguish and may the birds and I remember that to honor you is to fly, untethered, amid wings and wind |