By packing last night, we'd hoped to get on the road by 9 this morning; we were satisfied to roll out at 9:45.
One of the reasons for our delay was my inability to find the right poem for our last breakfast together. My searches for good-bye poems led me down rabbit holes of poems about breakups and divorce.
Then my daughter and her boyfriend stopped by to say goodbye to Grandma and Grandpa, so I abandoned the poem search, telling myself we'd satisfy our daily poem quota by reciting "Kentucky Belle" on our drive to Ft. Dodge--which we did. (My parents also recited "Thanatopsis." I really do want that final stanza read at my funeral. By you, Emma Bireline.)
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It is hard to allow myself to feel the full emotion of an experience when that emotion is woven of loss. Ending is loss. My parents could not live here forever. I think one of the reasons I could enjoy them so fully was because I knew it was temporary.
Yet their leaving, at the same time corn tassels are browning and the temperature took an unexpected dip, filled me with that autumnal sense of time moving on. As time does. It is a losing; it is a letting go; it is a loss.
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When my sister's granddaughter was four or five, she went through a time of intensely fearing death. My sister was able to offer her some solace by explaining we are people who take turns on the Earth. We are here for a time, and then we move on. It is Wolf's turn now.
Most days we don't dwell on this. But today I did.
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After leaving Vern at Critter Camp, where he'll stay for two weeks while my parents are in quarantine and cannot leave their rooms, we dropped off trousers to be dry-cleaned, and then picked up my dad's pre-ordered books at the library. We then drove through McDonald's and found a shady spot on the Iowa Central Community College campus for our picnic.
My father's Big Mac dripped on his pants, and we mused that we'd need to make another pass by the dry-cleaners. My mother said no one makes a hamburger like McDonald's.
It was then time to return to Friendship Haven.
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The drop-off was slick. The masked staff was conscientious and kind. They lifted my dad's heavy scooter from the vehicle, and a darling girl (nametag: Andrea) jumped on it to bring it into the building. When she hit the joystick and the machine lurched forward, she yelped with surprise, and we all laughed. I told her I'd done the same thing the first time I drove it!
A multi-person crew unloaded Vern's dog cage, a dozen puzzles, a box of fruit and cereal, the library books (as well as a pile from my house), a stack of Sunday School materials, wool socks, cards for Bridge, my dad's laptop (bookmarked for ZOOM), my mother's journals, their small assortment of hygiene items, two canes, one walker, and some bubbles.
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My parents answered questions about their health and then had their temperatures taken. We asked a nurse to take our picture. I hugged their brittle bones goodbye.
My mom and I were both a little teary, a little scared, a little sad, a little brave.
As I drove home, I thought of the poem I should have shared with them this morning. It is the one my mother gave to me on the day I left for college. Despite our fractious relationship at that time, I read the poem over and over.
I'll share it with you here:
Go now: I shall open the door for you.
Everything is in store for you.
There is a room beyond this room;
beyond the circle of my arms and voice,
a further warmth, a further sound.
Rejoice: the world, my Sweet, like any other womb, is round!
Go now: you are ready to go.
I know - leavings are lonely.
But look: going is only a larger kind of living; and I swear:
tomorrow will be better.
(Take your sweater.)
Nothing stays: the ways of love are always moving;
loving itself is a growing being as spreading as pain.
Go now, while there is still light for seeing.
(Take your rubbers. It might rain.)
Good-by now; and remember what I've said to you;
Be nice to those who asks you in;
they love you, too.
When given a gift smile;
say thank you; even send a card.
(Little things like that make life less hard.)
Come on now: nothing is really so bad.
Think of what you've had;
it's all there - among your packed belongings:
the rightings and wrongings of years.
No - please. No tears.
You are Old Enough: the time to leave is how old Old is.
(Drink lots of orange juice. You know how common the cold is.)
Go now: only in part will I be left behind.
We have shared one heart and one mind.
No one ever goes alone through any door.
Yes, yes - I shall miss you!
(Wait. Surely there is a minute more. I forgot to kiss you.)
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My father called this evening to say they'd forgotten their clock, the one that tells them the day, date, time, and orients them to morning, afternoon, or evening. I will mail it tomorrow.
A few hours later I called him back to ask if he'd been able to access the "Oklahoma!" musical I'd flagged for him on Youtube. He could get to the video, but he couldn't get any sound, despite nearly 10 minutes of me saying "Hover over the lower-left corner of the video. Not the whole computer. Just the video."
"I see cowboys," my dad would say, "but I can't hear anything."
I then thought I could fix his volume issue if I could see his screen, so I sent him a ZOOM link. A few missteps later, we could hear each other, he could see me, but I couldn't see him. Ever the good sport, my dad would likely have kept hovering and clicking at my direction well into the wee hours. But I sensed we'd tried hard enough for one day.
Since they could at least see me, I walked my laptop around my dining room where my mother's cup and saucer collection is displayed on a cup rail. I pointed out favorite cups I knew she'd remember. It was a happy ending to an otherwise disastrous ZOOM chat, and a soothing ending to an otherwise wistful day.
Enough.
Be well.
Write.
Allison
Wolf and his lovely mama.
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