And After the Last Word . . .

I have been meaning to write about the Tree Dedication for my Aunt June.  It has been hard to write about for several reasons.  I think the words I would use to describe the event are fraught and redemptive remembering.

The fraughtness of it was due to family dynamics, rainy weather, a room bursting with grief, and subplots to the ongoing narrative.  How can one rainy morning hold so much tension and pain and sadness?  How can a heart hold it all?

As I sat and listened to the class members share the story of how the memorial arboretum came to be, I was struck by the passion in each of their voices.  It seemed to me that what had started as a kind idea had become, for them, a way to grieve their own losses.  I knew that something special was happening in the room.

When their loved one’s name was called, the families were invited to stand up, introduce themselves, and share a little about their loved one.  I was amazed at how many family members of each honored classmate came to the memorial . . . Each late classmate had at least two people there and there were as many as eight family members.  Some had passed on quite recently while others had been gone for 30-plus years.  However, there was no difference in the passion and grief with which the family members spoke.

I thought about that for quite some time . . . for some of us, it had been many, many years since our loss.  Why had so many of us shown up with our families and our grief and our tears?

And I think I have it.  Or at least part of it, anyway.  It’s that word again:  Remember.

It was such a gift that the class remembered our loved ones.

You see, when June died, it was fresh for everyone.  Not just us, her family, but all of our friends who loved us and hated to see us grieve.  But then the months went by and the years went by and babies were born, other people died, friends moved away, and so it seemed that June was . . . forgotten.  And I didn’t feel comfortable saying, “Hey.  My aunt was murdered 20 years ago and did you know?  Did you remember that she existed?  She lived, she loved, she laughed, she was present!  Do you remember that someone is missing from my and my family’s lives?”

So for all these years, I spoke only with Grief about my lovely, vivacious Aunt June.  Grief remembered with me.  And Grief ushered us into Redemptive Remembering.

On a very rainy morning on July 4, 2009, the Iowa Falls High School Class of 1969 chose to remember.  And they chose to tell us that they remembered.  And they listened to our memories.  And they gifted us–and others to come–with a permanent place to remember.

I will remember that morning for as long as I live. I will remember that there will be no last word now, but many words as family and friends and visitors stand before that Juneberry tree and grieve and laugh and remember.

Talking to Grief

Ah, Grief, I should not treat you
like a homeless dog
who comes to the back door
for a crust, for a meatless bone.
I should trust you.

I should coax you
into the house and give you
your own corner,
a worn mat to lie on,
your own water dish.

You think I don’t know you’ve been living
under my porch.
You long for your real place to be readied
before winter comes. You need
your name,
your collar and tag. You need
the right to warn off intruders,
to consider
my house your own
and me your person
and yourself
my own dog.

(Denise Levertov)