In an early Autumn rain
golden leaves stick like glue
to the spot where they fall,
but when winds dry the dampness
from the floor of the earth,
it relieves wet leaves
of their burden.
Freed leaves grow restless!
They drift and scurry!
Some stay close to home,
but some scatter far, far away.
Leaves are like children!
Speaking of leaves, here is a haiku for Ragtag Daily Prompt: Elusive
An elusive leaf
snatched up by a gust of wind
dances on for miles
Nearly six months after the loss of our beloved dog, Heidi, I can finally string together a few coherent words about her.
Lonely the yard where she once played
Cold the bed in which she laid
Silent the squeak of her favorite toy
Gone the source of our constant joy
Mournful the heart which continually weeps
Our faithful companion now gently sleeps
We got our white schnauzer puppy 16 ½ years ago. She was supposed to be “my” dog – and she was – for about two weeks! Then a work conference required that I leave town for a few days, at which time she completely bonded with my husband, and he with her. They were the best of friends until the day she died. Don’t get me wrong, she loved me too, but I was clearly her second choice… except during a storm when she was all over me!
When Heidi was young, she would obsessively sit on her perch at the front window and guard the house while we were at work. She took her job very seriously, barking nonstop at the neighborhood children as they went to and from school or played outside during the summer.
Her favorite thing to do was play ball. She liked tennis balls with a squeaker inside because it was always such fun to be noisy. In the house she liked to stand at the top of the stairs and catch the ball we tossed up to her; then she would nod her head, release the ball and throw it back down. It’s a game she was very good at! Outside, she would fetch the ball from anywhere you threw it, then run like the wind to return it precisely at your feet.
By the time we retired, she began to slow down. I think she was happy to hand over the responsibility of protecting the house to us now that we were home more often. She got used to the routine of two walks a day. My husband would take her in the morning, and I would take her in the afternoon. She could get very demanding if she thought her walk might be delayed. Sometimes while running errands, I’d realize it was nearing 2:00. “I’ve got to get home”, I’d tell myself, “It’s almost time for Heidi’s walk!”
She began to have trouble keeping her footing on the hardwood floors inside our house, so we put down extra rugs here and there to help her walk. Eventually, nearly every square inch of slippery floor was covered with a rug. We carried her up and down the stairs for several years.
Arthritis and kidney problems plagued Heidi in her old age. She became intolerant of anyone touching her, so grooming was an issue. She looked like a homeless mutt at times, but you know what? If I was in pain, I wouldn’t want someone messing with me either!
We removed most of the rugs from the hardwood floors after Heidi was gone. I find the floors a little boring now; just like life is sometimes without her.
Last night steady rain fell here in the garden,
flooded now with memories of my mother.
The morning sky
still hangs low with heavy clouds
but leaks pale yellow light here and there.
“Sunshine is good for the Cannas,”
I hear her say.
I wonder if she ever knew how little I cared;
how unimpressed I was at the time
with her gardening wisdom?
Nurturing her garden was my mother’s gratification
… a diversion from the unfair hand
she was dealt.
I pull weeds from a patch of Begonias
and remember her happy.
I watch ants parade through the Peonies
and remember her healthy.
I prune the Roses, deadhead the Daisies,
and tie the Clematis a little bit higher for dramatic effect;
but my efforts don’t match the beauty
of Mother’s garden.
Sunlight fades; the air is still.
I realize I’ve tended the garden all day long.
I imitate the Lilies
which have folded themselves in prayer.
“God, grant me another day,” I ask
“filled with memories of Mother’s garden.”
My latest hospice patient was full of stories. Millie started telling me stories the minute I sat down beside her. She grew up on a farm with three sisters, so there were numerous tales of chores, animals, strict parents, and of course boyfriends. The boys would come calling on her sisters, not her. She watched as her sisters dated and eventually married, but she was always more comfortable on her own. “I was sure I’d be an old maid”, she admitted, “It’s what I thought I wanted”… and then she met him.
Andy had returned from a two-year enlistment in the Navy. Back home with his parents in Pennsylvania, he felt lost and didn’t know what to do with his life. His uncle was a farmer in Kansas who needed help with the harvest, so he moved west. Andy and Millie met when they each drove truck-loads of wheat to the grain elevators in the middle of a long, hot summer.
Millie is proof that there’s always space inside us reserved for someone else and a new way of thinking. She had to adjust her heart and her mind to make room for Andy and for the family they might have someday. “It just took a while”, she said, but once she figured out love had finally come calling on HER, she changed her thinking from “me” to “us”. The life journal I wrote for Millie will be shared with 3 children, 6 great-grandchildren and 14 great-great grandchildren.
Once
she lived inside herself
closed off to the world of affection.
Then
there was a tug at her heart
and a sense of approaching vulnerability.
She felt herself being opened somehow
and she
never found her way back to being closed.
Photo Credit: Pinterest
Note: Names have been changed
See my other Hospice Stories Here
On the eve of Spring,
the earth is a dirty place!
A rowdy Fall seems to have
flung things here and there
and Winter stubbornly refused
to pick them up.
The result is a sad chaos
of decaying leaves, abandoned nests
and an impressive assortment of litter
from some drunken teenage party.
Twigs and broken branches
are strewn like tiny corpses
on the ground.
Emerging from the dead,
Spring instinctively will come
bringing with it
an elixir of cleansing rain.
Following the purge,
rejuvenation is conceived.
Every long-forgotten seed
soon starts to grow, and the
landscape will change
before our eyes.
But for now, trees bend
like little old men,
crippled by harsh winds
and the burden of snow.
From their stooped position,
they lift their weathered faces
toward the sun – as we all do,
on the eve of Spring.
His hut is the farthest from the fire.
It makes him feel brave and independent.
He built it out of timbers, straw and stone
with sticks for a door to impede intruders.
His people are hunters and gatherers,
reliant on wild game and edible plants.
His hunt takes him deep into the wilderness
where adventure stirs his spirit and enriches his soul.
Though he’s content to share the air with all living things,
he realizes sacrifices must be made.
When day is done, he brings his bounty to the fire
which burns in a circular pit lined with stone.
The aroma of roasting meat fills the air
and beckons those in their hut to share his food.
In praise, their gratitude becomes a song
composed and chanted in rhythm with the wind.
The fire that moments ago was a tool for cooking,
now bears a mocking resemblance to the sun
providing warmth and brightness to the night.
Around a smoky campfire the stories begin
bouncing back and forth across the flames.
Like kindling, words spark imagination.
Truths lead to legends and myths are born of lies.
Tall tales come to a halt when the embers die
and people wander quietly to their home.
His hut may be the farthest from the fire,
but stories fill his dreams and he is never cold.
Poem prompted by photo taken at Stonehenge in Wiltshire, England. The hut is a replica of one lived in 4,500 years ago by those who built Stonehenge.
When Faith and Joy left home
Hope was lost without them.
“Please come home”, she cried
“I can’t live without you!”
…so they did
and Hope survived.
Poem inspired by photo taken in Waterford, Ireland
