My dear friend, so many things are bombarding you, so few over which you have control. If I were there, I’d send the boys down to the man cave, pour each of us a glass of merlot, and usher you into the sunroom to chat. It would be like old times.
You do not know, could not know, that I was the faint breeze that touched your shoulder that August day you walked the hospital gardens, afraid you had lost him forever. Instead, it was me you lost. Among the purple petals of the coneflowers, the wispy-pink fairy blossoms, the gold splash of the black-eyed susans, I passed by to tell you goodbye.
Cancer took my body, robbed me of the chance to grow old with those I love, including you. But nothing can take my spirit. That is why I watch you from afar, know at night you lie awake, listening not for the wind or the owl as the clock chimes, but for his breathing. Your brain was not created like that of the dolphin, one half awake at all times. You need your sleep. Especially now. Please try and quit worrying.
I am with you every morning as you step into your mother’s bedroom. I sense your fear. Will she be loving? distant? Will she be alive? The hospice nurse is right. You are a remarkable daughter. But caring for a loved one in the final months, years, can be exhausting, a rollercoaster of emotions. And believe me, it does not matter whether death strikes at seventy-one or ninety-eight, it hurts. You, my friend, are hurting.
I suspect that is why you are pushing yourself so hard—running, rowing, lifting—stretching the limits of your aging body, determined to make yourself invincible. It is something over which you think you have control. But you are in your 70’s now, not 50’s. Try to acquire some semblance of moderation—and I say this lovingly, with a smile—if possible.
As for the headlines trumpeting the preposterous, you have always been a warrior against that you consider unjust. But many others have answered the call to save the country. You cannot do everything. What you can do, must do, is relearn how to savor the songs of the chickadees and finches at dawn; learn to listen to the angels, like me, whispering to you day and night:
Be gentle with yourself,
with yourself be gentle.
I was struggling to write the essence of this poem in a more traditional format. I almost gave up until I came across an essay in The Practices of Poetry that introduced the concept of a letter poem. Thinking about my friend and mentor, Anne Mauer, I decided to write a letter from her to me. Out flowed this poem in her wise and loving voice. As for the last paragraph . . . I did not see it coming. But as always, she is right.
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