My friend Tom has asked me to read something in honor of his wife, my friend, Carol, at her memorial on the solstice. It seems fitting that I write some lines for this, for her. In some ways, I've been composing these in my head since she was first diagnosed with breast cancer, some seventeen years ago. That's a long time to contemplate, to let an idea simmer on way-low-low-low, barely any flame until now. And what do I have, so far? Oh, so very little.
How does one define a life, a friendship, in two or three minutes? I wrote her a poem years ago, post-mastectomy, about gathering all the rain-sodden delphiniums in my garden and carrying them to her door. Today at Trader Joe's, in this late-May downpour, there were foil-wrapped pots of river-blue delphiniums for sale at the entrance.
My inclination is to revisit other deaths, to reside there for just a bit. Forgive me for what I expect to be a continued melancholy, here. At least until I can get this worked out.