The Accumulation of Things

The Accumulation of Things

 

It is not the pain,
it is the accumulation of things.
And, I hate to complain, but today
the weight of solitude caused my knees to buckle.

Yesterday I received letters from friends who
have
melted my heart and let me into their own.
One, a glorious musician, air force navigator,
adventurer and conspirator in all things poetic and
spiritual.
The other, a widow. I attended her grief during her
husband’s final days and her son’s just one year later.
I was in over my head. But we stayed with her son,
her, me and the attending nurse,
until the light faded from his eyes. He was kindness
embodied, shoveling snow from the church sidewalk
with me when the drifts
were nearly high as our heads.

And most days the memories of these living friends,
these who for 25 and 35 years have never ended their
grace to me, their smiles encased within my heart,
a place reserved for fireplace talks and Christmas carol
variations. Most days they inhabit with joy my only alone.

But today it is the accumulation of things. Today
I wish for a finger’s touch on my arm, the kind that warms
you, and maybe makes you blush. The kind that pushes the
button to allow the tears to flow again. Today
I wish for the eyes that do not look away. The kind that
are lyrical, the kind that coax miracles from melancholy
without demanding faith of any kind.

Just like dividing an integer by zero,
solitude upon solitude becomes impossible.
A sparrow’s song outside the window breaks the
ennui for a moment. Maybe some carolers will call.