And Do I Grieve?

                         Welcome!

summer dry
(compare with winter green in July)

As Christmas fast approaches, memories of earlier times jostle with the urgency of the present. Who will we celebrate with this year? Who is missing?

In Australia, Christmas is in summer. It can be scorching, it can be mild, sometimes it is cool and raining. Some families like to maintain the winter traditions of hot roast turkey, cranberry sauce and all the trimmings, followed by pudding with custard. Others throw a barbecue with prawns and snags, followed by a modern summer dessert. In my family we serve cold turkey and ham with salads, and place a bob each way for dessert – a traditional pudding and a pavlova.

The poem that follows is in memory of Phyl Stretton (1916-2007) who, as my honorary grandmother, spent several Christmases with us – and always asked for pavlova instead of pud.

And Do I Grieve?

I hold her hand again, the image burned

Into my thoughts of Phyl in recent days.

A hand surprising for its strength though she

Was failing, held in pain as cancer swelled

Her abdomen. Two years or maybe three

She'd hoped, believing medicine would save

Her from the worst. So when the doctor said,

'If this won't work, there's nothing more to do,'

She could not comprehend. I had to tell

It all again, and starkly spell it out

In letters large. Not only was it hard

For her to grasp the surgeon's careful words,

But she could not be comforted as I

By his expression, anguished and distressed;

My secondhand impressions did not paint

The scene sufficient to relieve the night,

For Phyl was blind; e'en so does age prepare

Us for the eve when this life's day shall end.

I knew her in the morning of my life

As fam'ly friend, and party drama queen.

At thirteen I had grown to trust her so

I'd sought her wisdom for my future plans.

Our paths diverged, locations far apart

And lives that intimated nothing more

Than distant memory we'd ever share.

Vicissitudes of life reversed our roles.

Her widowhood and accidents o'erwhelmed

Her, stole her will, her joie de vivre sapped.

A weekly visit then became routine,

The pattern set before we realised

The name of our relationship had changed –

She was a grandmother to me whose own    

Had lived so far away, they'd seemed unreal,

And I the grandchild she could never have.

These years together as she grew more frail

And independence slowly fell away

We spent by talking life: the daily now,

Her memories of theatre, friends, and war.

E'en then she rarely spoke of spouse or son,

The menfolk in her life a silent void –

Her father'd died in war when she was two –

Yet stories of her youthful lovers showed     

A need, perhaps, that never was fulfilled.

Romance came to her briefly at the end

Of her long life. Her friend, her 'lover', gave

Her final days a comfort and a joy.

Her love of feeling loved was like a girl's –

And he no less delighted. What a pair!

They quickly made a name among the staff;

Detractors had their say, and with just cause,

But he revealed his worth as she grew weak:

He rarely left her side, he went each day

To her in hospital, and he no youth.

I'd meet him there; we'd each take hand held out,

'With you both here, I've nothing more I need',

She'd say, her dry eyes closed, skin tissue-thin.

I found an hour all that I could bear

But faithful lover stayed with her all day,

All days. There was one special hour before

She came, at last, to her own bed, when we –

Myself, the chaplain, Phyl, beloved friend –

Received Communion, simple, deeply felt,   

Her fav'rite people joined by Heaven’s love

The first and only time. For faith was birthed

As age exacted tax on former health,

And heaven's vision comforted in part

The loss of what before had been her life –

The theatre, parties, long-held friendships – God

Had drawn her close, his death and life now hers.

We talked of him together and we prayed

The last time I was with her, holding hands.

I said, 'Goodbye', but only for the while

We'd be on holiday. I wrote her cards

From Torquay and from Lorne. I sent the first

Before the phone call came to tell her death;

I've kept the rest.

                                    There was no funeral.

Possessions bagged for charity, her son

No want for things beyond the words she'd breathed

Of love for him; so late for him. We spoke

The third time in the decades we had shared

His mother. Does he grieve? Do I? For whom?

My visits with her were a chance for me

To talk about myself, my hopes, my fears

And hear her words of affirmation, backed

By thoughtful questions and remembered news.

She listened. She believed in me. She loved

As grandmas well can do, without regard

For faults and flaws, just seeing diamonds gleam

Where I saw only quartz, my stumbling words

Of poetry and prose heard carefully

And shared with friends. For her I read aloud

The poets she had cherished long and oft

Recited on demand, her stagecraft strong.

And yet she was an ardent advocate

Of my poor lines. How she would scold if now

She heard those words!

                                    So what remains of Phyl?

Nought but relationships she'd deftly formed,

And stories told, which we may choose to weave

As colour in the cloth of our own lives.

Recalling Christmases, the fam'ly thrilled

When Phyl was one of us, pale matriarch,

Or was she fairy godmother of old?

Bestowing gifts and blessings on her folk

Who valued trinkets, kindly words, bequeathed

As evidence of this grandmother's love.

Her presence veiled now, still she lingers, whole

In spite of fractured memories. I cringe;

The image fixed before me now is soiled

With pain, with my own helplessness and urge

To run from clutching hands and sickly smell.

And weeks before that, when her usual grip

On what was real began to falter, slide

Into the past, the present gone, I braced

Myself to bring her back. But past was kind;

Did I betray her when I chose with love?

Yet death by cancer was the thief which stole

From her the clarity of thought and speech,

Expended her élan. Remember, though,

Her sense of fun, her biting wit, the quips

That yet broke through the haze. On our last day

Together, only half in jest we talked

Of heaven's plan to throw a merry bash

To welcome her. We'd no idea how near

That day – one week from then until she left.

And do I grieve? For her sake I rejoice.

And for the memories I'm truly glad,

And for the richness extra fam'ly brought

To all my kin. Of life lived, what remains?

A hand in mine and many lives enhanced.

Until next week…
Claire Belberg