Poem

Bowing To It All

Bow. Bow to it all: the loss, the deluge, the dams broken, lives buried in beds of mud, miles of charred forest and all those for whom those forests were home.

Bow down to the loss, let it fill you. Their loss, your own loss, each loss emptying the world of its having been. The ever-flowing waters carving out new routes from higher ground to the valley below.

Nothing is lost, only altered. A new community is born along the edge of the receding water line, redwood saplings sprout from ashen forest floors. The loss of a loved one filling multiple hearts with compassion. Where there was the touch of a hand memory serves up sublime moments sitting and talking quietly on a brownstone stoop.

You remember her last words. She was in her wheelchair and it was time for you to leave and as you said goodbye you asked: “Is there anything else I can do for you before I go?” And she turned to you with that deadpan expression of hers and said: “Yes, take me with you.” And you laughed, said you would if you could, and you hugged her goodbye, leaving her there with her husband and cousin — her dear cousin who called you the next night and said: “Susan died today.”

You sat on your meditation cushion and sobbed. Later that night, alone in your bed, you begin remembering all the tender moments you shared with her, each one filling you up again as you honor her request and bring her home with you.