2.9.1955

m a d e l e i n e & g a b r i e l l e

What each of us knows
is that there’s always a
passing to every little thing —
to every large thing, from
the smallest insecta, to the
grandest universe, and it’s
hard to face that; know – that
it’s each, for all. All, end one.

There was a poem, long back
that I spoke to — repeated — to
your Mom. I never forgot it. And
I’m sure she never did, either, to
the simple character of the
missive. I might have drawn it
out for her, as well — as a gift.
And I still do that, a lot.

It was in those easier years
when all seemed light
and untrammeled; it
was, really, the year
of your ages. When you
are tumbling out of the
teens, and skating on the
20s, and moving worldwise.

The poem, the haiku was
Insects,
why cry?
We all go.
That way.
And it was written centuries
ago, by Basho, the Japanese
Zen master poet.

And for your Mother,
this calling came, sooner
known than we’d all
hoped — but not all dreams
are fulfilled — at least in the
manner that we might
venture, in the light of
imaginations.

And to that then, we
must struggle with that
ineffable proof of living.
That in living, ultimately,
we all go. This way. That
way. Any way. This one
path is certain. Life begins.
And life ends.

And, finally, that we must
look for the beauty in what
has been found, lightfinding
the good hearted way, that
surely your mother found,
and tried for, struggled
with, and struck the flint
of life with, to ignite some

thing anew. What is that,
found here? Gratefulness to
all that has been, loved and
known, and happiness there.
And too, finding solace in all
that can be, embraced in
the new sense of living.
Something lost to us all,

a new sight found, in passage.

—-
love dad
2.9.2007

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