my mother turned 75 years-old yesterday
and that’s all i know,
about her
anymore
in mid-July, the summer-resident barn swallows who had successfully raised and launched four fledglings by June 23rd, 2025, attempted to raise a second brood;
while i am not absolutely sure if it was the same set of parents or another in the barn swallow community that utilized the nest — as there is a collective of more than a dozen swallows that visits and assists in feeding sometimes too — it is most likely they are the same parent pair;
this is the second summer the barn swallows have nested here in my barn — using last year’s well-constructed nest which they attached to one of the joists like a balcony cantilevered on a Chicago highrise;
i began leaving the overhead barn door open when i first noticed them circling and investigating the barn a few years back; and i was thrilled last year when they began construction of their nest — they were so very welcomed and wanted here — i now know to leave the barn door raised from mid May through July to give them access.
if you’re seeing this, you’re alive,
though dying — no matter your age, health, relative safety, relative comfortability —
on this living, though suffering and actively dying, planet
Earthlings and Earth together in a protracted hospice
right now, in these brief years, these grief years,
we are the “ever-living ghosts of what once was”
a “was” that most all of us alive this morning have never known as lived experience — save for the untouched tribes — 10,000 Uncontacted Peoples — 10,000 unsystematized, “uncivilized”
and the Ocean, and the few, still-standing Ancient One Trees; the untouched Desert, and the Mountains — even the youngest of them — The Tetons and The Himalayas, know what it “was” to be alive.
we are mere ghosts, walking dead.
the last meal that She cooked for herself
was in the late afternoon of the 18th of September the Year of Our Hearts, 2023
that same evening
She would spend the last night together alone with her only child, her son, in Their house on Adams Street
he had already stopped at Chik-fil-A
– or Quesabroso? for his dinner
he, sixteen forever, for Her, not even licensed for a year yet
She thought, then said aloud to him
“pasta. i want some pasta.”
and so She very slowly set about
choosing saucepans, boiling water,
sautéing a little ground beef with a bit of diced onion, and minced garlic from a giant container from Costco,
adding in a half jar of Rao’s Original, some dried herbs — nothing too spicy or fancy now,
cooking her favorite gluten-free rigatoni,
or was it penne, mostaccioli?
She ate, rinsed the pots, loaded and ran the dishwasher, put the combined leftovers in her fridge
and at dinner time the very next day,
She told her oldest and dearest friend about it
her friend listened, and watched Her plate, reheat, and sit down to eat those leftovers — She wanting to do all that for Herself, still
She taking the smallest and most intentional bites possible,
every delicate swallow and cough amplified in the too-big-for-two, unusually quiet house, the parade of Her friends and visitors gone until tomorrow
“i’m not supposed to drink with these meds, but lemme have just one lil’ sip of your wine”
Continue reading “the last meal of a woman”i missed the rise of the
Full Moon last night,
preoccupied in thought
hands busy in work
she missed the rise of the
Full Moon last night
preoccupied in pain
early to bed, early to bed-ridden
i say, i will witness Her tonight
waning only slightly, gibbous,
99, 98 percent
or next month,
with confidence, and guilt
i say, she won’t witness Her tonight,
or next month, or any phase
Zero percent
wondering if she ever considered the Moon,
with confidence, and guilt
the word “full” lingers on beyond the Moon’s illumination
— as relative,
in these lives of ours
I am not nesting
for the birth of a baby
I am harboring
for the death of a friend
first in a series
The Entrance Gate on the far bank of The River Tuoni according to the Kalevala and as depicted by Finnish artist Hugo Simberg
In this piece, which is an interpretation of one of many universal myths which impart the water crossing and trek we all are to embark upon after death,
most of the departed climb up the steep, barren embankment and enter the tunnel individually, while a child and a dog are tenderly escorted — led by the hand or carried by chthonic monks into the tunnel leading to the
Underworld
the tunnel appears under geological strata — presumably the surface of Earth, with blue sky and forest in background above it
interestingly, the artist’s limited use of perspective also allows the sky and forest to be viewed potentially as the Great Beyond itself — as a Northern or Alpine “paradise,” a Valhalla, beyond the sojourn in and through the tunnel
a high, solid, wooden fence bisects the river, embankment and tunnel and prevents arrivals from observing the exiting monks — only one-way vision and traffic for the dead
and while the monks do not cast shadows, the human figures continue to be accompanied by their shadows; for those who subscribe to Jungian analytical psychology or gnostic texts, the physical shadow depicted may be interpreted symbolically as the anima/animus of the person — which would ultimately disappear during the tunnel upon the full reintegration of the Self/Soul/Spirit
through re-unification with one’s divine twin (which is sometimes also called the cosmic/celestial twin or daimon) after having been separated during human incarnation and birth.
author’s note:
i often and prefer to call the underworld aka afterlife “The Great Wide Open of the All” — which in my liminal gleanings is a supremely contented blackness of universal consciousness, devoid of thought or sensation — a perfected existence in the dark cosmic fabric of nothingness,
there may be levels in the afterlife which may manifest our own personal imaginal constructs of paradise — far beyond what our limited sensory perception and experiences of life on Earth are - such as, an Alpine Paradise upon emerging from the tunnel -
i know full well the breathtaking beauty and feeling upon exiting a scary and lengthy mountain tunnel where my heart and eyes are stunned by a grand vista of forest, peaks and sky — from my many road trips in the Western U.S.
yet, i truly prefer the former — when i die, i want to rest for all eternity — although with just one desire, one sensation: warmth.
i am in premeditative mourning
desperate to get it
over and done with
before she’s dead
i choke on the dream scene, the prognosis and the grand scheme / ever-present in my throat /
and weep
then, a memory of us wedges in
i cry a smile, and smile a cry
i think
this, is all, too much
i can’t do this.
she is the one doing it
with her dignity, her calm, her reserve, she’s had too much practice, she’s well-traveled on this terrain
these consecutive life sentences, handed out
i am in retroactive outrage
over these injured bodies, injured, not failing,
precision is imperative /
i am in proactive rage
against these failing systems within this failed system in this injured, not failing, closed system /
precision is imperative
does anyone else want to know
the cause/s of death/s
these expendable, collateral clusters — of families, neighborhoods, workers, of an implausible deniability
one after another at four, five or six decades — dead
did he bring home the syndrome
in silica tucked in the creases
of his work clothes
of his brow,
he built the skyline! the Hancock even
my god, did he carry it in his semen
or was it the apartment on wabansia?
on karlov? on keystone?
all zoned mixed-use residential-commercial-industrial — industrial!
when they all walked from home
to work at the factory down the block,
on the next block, or across the alley
a metal plater
a powder coater
a dry-cleaner
tool and die
i don’t want these precognitions anymore!
let me dream her as a grandmother
with her grandchildren, all, all pristine!
i know the outcome
of walking forward in waking fantasy, in empty, unheard prayer, instead of trusting the retrograde revelations of my sleep
All light
That’s what you are
That’s what you always were
But, you’ve got to move on, now
Ready to go home, true.
They’re waiting for you.
All light,
I promise; it’s alright
the limineen | earthling, poet & crone 