Dedicated to the memory of
Marjorie Hope Schecter Hellerstein
Dec. 9, 1924 - Jan. 5, 2005
It was only afterwards, coming home, that it hit me.
A week later, long long after that phone call;
After the shock and confusion;
After conference calls and plans and tickets;
After packing and driving and curb-checking and boarding;
After the long, long plane ride;
After the all-day reception at home;
- with family and friends, neighbors and colleagues
a huge noisy crowd from all over the country
so many people loved her so much -
After the memorial service;
- the rabbi was smooth and poetic, he didn’t know her,
my wife spoke for me, I was too stunned to speak,
my father wept difficult tears -
After the burial;
- my best friend and I stood at her grave,
“A great lady,” I stoically intoned,
he agreed, then embraced me with a lover’s caress,
I am so grateful -
After the sleepless night;
After the repacking and the long talks and the awkward goodbyes;
After driving and curb-checking and boarding;
After taxiing and waiting and taxiing and waiting;
After finally, finally the engines powered up
and the plane hurtled forward and lept up
and blasted out of icy Boston at 400 miles per hour;
Then and only then, with all work done
with nothing left to do but sit and hurt
swaddled in the privacy of turbine’s scream
Then and only then was I able to wail.
* * * * * *
Oh Mom, Mom, what are you doing there?
What business have you in that hole in the ground?
You were only eighty years old!
What keeps you down there that’s better than us?
Your five children, your five grandchildren
that huge crowd of friends and colleagues
your house full of art and music
your two published books, your electric typewriter
that box full of half-finished manuscripts
and above all your verbal sparring partner
your beloved and your equal
that brilliant, difficult and passionate man
who now feels so lonely and so cheated;
what has death to offer you that he has not?
Yes, of course I’m being unfair, it wasn’t your idea.
None of this was according to your plan.
Judging by the scowl on your corpse’s face
you didn’t approve of the bright orange paint
that the mortician smeared on your lips
and you didn’t approve of the coffin
and you didn’t approve of death
and neither do I.
But what right have either of us to complain?
Your life was good, and so was your death.
One moment quietly taking dinner with Dad
calmly chatting of music and art
and the next moment gone, just like that.
Pulse irretrievable despite medical heroics.
O enviable exit!
Death was supremely easy on you, it was only hard on us.
Therefore I do not mourn for you, the dead;
I mourn for us, the living.
You were always 100% genuine, 0% nonsense
so let me be no-nonsense too
and say that I am selfish enough to want you back.
I want you in time, not eternity; suffering, not at peace
and I want you to endure these dreadful things
for the worst possible reason;
because I love you and I miss you
and I’ll never see you again
and I want my mommy back.
You left behind a hole in the air
and it hurts, it hurts, it hurts.
I miss my mommy,
I miss my mommy,
I MISS MY -
* * * * * *
Stop it, Nat, stop it.
Control, control. Chin up, soldier on.
These good people listening to you;
they don’t want agony, they want poetry.
They want rhyme and rhythm, not sobs and sighs.
And if you must inflict free verse on them
then at least amuse them with a story or two.
Show, don’t tell.
Don’t just say she was beautiful, brilliant, generous and brave;
Expound upon a memory revealing all!
Recall and proclaim some definitive incident!
But that’s just what I cannot do.
I strain my brain but draw a blank.
My mind finds nothing in particular to reveal.
Ask a fish about water, ask a bird about air;
they cannot tell you, they know nothing in particular;
they only know everything.
Now ask me about my mother.
* * * * * *
And so, kindly listeners, I cannot entertain you.
I offer you no tragic drama, no wry wit, no mystic insight.
There is no culture here for you.
O you distant witnesses, you calm counsellors, so safe and serene;
You do not understand.
You cannot understand, and neither can I.
It happened, but I still don’t believe it.
I still want to send her this poem
this inadequate Kaddish saying nothing but nothing.
So seek my mother within the ecstasy of emptiness.
Show’s over, folks.
Move along, move along.
1 / 12-14 / 2005