My dears,
In the last weeks of Val’s life, someone from her meditation group shared a poem with her. She described it to me, briefly with her brief breath, and I sat in the bed next to her spelunking the internet with my phone until I found the right thing. I read it to her then and a couple other times.
The poem is “Spent,” by Mark Doty. As I think about those living-and-dying days, and I pace in confusion around the impossibility that Val isn’t right here anymore, I circle back sometimes to this poem.
I haven’t gone asking for the author’s permission, so I won’t post the whole thing here, but here’s the beginning and a link for you to read it at Poets.org. It takes you somewhere surprising and thoughtful, a few somewheres I think, even while staying in one house, so go read the whole thing.
Spent, by Mark Doty
Late August morning I go out to cut
spent and faded hydrangeas—washed
greens, russets, troubled little auras
of sky as if these were the very silks
of Versailles, mottled by rain and ruin
then half-restored, after all this time…
When I come back with my handful
I realize I’ve accidentally locked the door,
and can’t get back into the house.
Find the rest of the poem here.
I keep wondering where, and how, and what she is now.
Love,
Deborah