A Roof

Several weeks ago I lost two people, my uncle and  my baby. The losses are married in my gut because they happened so closely in time, days apart.  It's hard to unwind where one pain ends and the other begins, if the tears are for one or both or all or everything. I remember saying to my mom at some point in the process of both losses, "it's too much." She agreed, of course, it is entirely too much. On their own, each loss would have felt unbearable, but the two together feel as if I've broken some internal meter for fortitude.

The last few weeks have blurred, smiles and laughter and warm meals with friends a welcome balm.  But I still feel bizarrely scooped out, like the strongest, worthiest, most-myself-est pieces have been removed for maintenance and I am just a roof, pulled taut over the remaining bits and pieces that make me a person.

I have many in my life who pray for me. My family, friends. And I would never dismiss the desire loved ones have to bring the heartaches of their dearest companions to God.  I'm thankful for prayer, for the messy attempt we humans make of offering comfort when comfort feels impossible, but the underlying faith necessary to believe in the helpfulness of prayer these days is pretty thin.  And that spiritual shakiness is what makes me ache for my uncle. No stranger to pain, especially over the last five years of his cancer struggle, he always ended his health updates with "The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away/Blessed be the name of the Lord." It could have been a casual email signature to some, but to him it was the greatest of truths.  I miss having that bone deep belief in my life, that smiling assurance that no depth of sorrow was without hope.

There wasn't anything to bury when we lost the baby. Too soon, too small, too fast. So we wrapped the petals of flowers given to us by friends and family in a remnant of my wedding gown and buried the hope of our babe at my husband's mom's grave. By that time, Uncle Buck had left us, too, and so the prayers I threw into the clouds were directed to him, not to God, "Show him around, Uncle Buck. Take care of him until I get there." Childish perhaps, but speaking to my uncle is easier than speaking to God these days, and so I do.  I hear his "darlin," his "sweetheart" when I cry and I hear the refrain he repeated throughout the course of his treatment, "The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away/Blessed be the name of the Lord." I read my poems to him and pretend he's with me in the car when I listen to political podcasts. On the days that it is difficult for me to believe in a good and loving God, I am thankful for my unshakable belief in the communion of saints. While God may feel far away, Uncle Buck does not, and someday perhaps I'll acknowledge that that's God, too.

I am a Roof Now, Empty and Protective

The hurt stretched, pulled thin against some immovable plane.

I picture ancient warrior women, all hands and sweep of hair, rolling out some mammoth hide and 

pulling it taut. 

That's what I am now, for now, 

my hurt some wet, bloody roof to our home. 

The sweat and crush of it has passed but the shade remains, 

the shade and the protection from all this rain.

We bury you (just petals really because you had nothing else to give us when you left)

beside your Granma, not far from a lake, 

That's where I am now, for now,

the loss of you so quick, your daddy dug a hole with a tiny stick.

I wonder if grass is cool or green or itchy, slim and sharp or soft and wide

In that other place you've bloomed without the protection of my animal hide.

The sun will dry this skin in pieces, patches, and the rain won't soak us through.

But you're still out there beneath a tree and I am still a mama with no baby

That's who I am now, for now,

Hands smoothing the stretch of me, pulled tight to the ground as music wafts from somewhere

I protect some part of you still, beneath this roof of flesh and blood

And you grow somewhere new, God's garden, God's flood

The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away.  Blessed be the name of the Lord.