Many, many thanks for the comments, links and emails from so many of you expressing condolences, prayers and sympathy for the death of my father. It’s hard to express how comforting such seemingly innocuous gestures can be, but I will try in a later post. Suffice it for now that my family and I are very touched.

Here’s something kind of interesting: the Diana Der Hovanessian poem, “Shifting the Sun,” that I posted last Tuesday (Lord, has it been that long already?) is a poem that I heard for the very first time in January of 1997. I was listening to MPR and Garrison Keillor’s “The Writer’s Almanac” as my family and I packed our bags, having just received word that my grandfather had died. I was stunned by the appropriateness of that poem on that day, and made a mental note to track down a copy of it when we returned home. Obviously I was successful, and we eventually placed a copy of the poem in the memory book that went out to family members after my grandfather’s funeral.

My father passed away Monday night, October 29, barely four months after being diagnosed with lymphoma. On Tuesday morning, October 30, The Writer’s Almanac featured this poem:

As Death Approaches

I can’t believe I’m laughing!
I’d have sworn I’d be
shaking or sniveling.
And I sure didn’t expect
a limousine.
I’ve never been in a limousine.
No biggy.
I’ve had better than fame.
Who needs the pressure?
As for fortune, I’m filthy.
That’s why I’m laughing.
I’ve had so much love:
the giving, the getting.
It’s shameful.
It’s embarrassing.
And it’s too late.
No one can take it away!
And I’ve had the pain
to help me appreciate it.
Thank God for the pain!
Easy for me to say
now that I’m going!
But no, seriously,
the kicks in the teeth,
the gut, the rugs
pulled out, slammed doors,
setbacks, snubs.
Without them, I’d
never have recognized
Love, bedraggled,
plain eyes shining,
happy to see me.
Do I want more?
Of course I want more!
I always want more
of everything: money, hugs,
lovemaking, art, butter,
woods, flowers, the sea,
M&Ms, chips, tops, bottoms,
trips — I did give up drinking —
time, sure, and yes,
I’d like to see
my grandchildren,
if there are any.
I’d like to see my books
but more has never
been good for me anyway.
Enough — that’s what I’ve
always needed to learn,
and is there a better way?
So this laughter
I had to work up to
through so many tears,
it just keeps coming
like a fountain, a spray.
Let it light on you
refreshment, benediction,
as I’m driven away.

By Susan Deborah King, from One-Breasted Woman. © Holy Cow! Press, 2007.

There’s so much in there that sums up what my dad would have said or felt, and for it to appear the morning after he died…and the perfect poem after my grandfather’s death…coincidence? Oh, but of course.

I can’t say I agree much with Keillor’s politics, but I like his stories and I enjoy the daily Almanac’s. Somehow, however, I see the hand of a higher author and finisher.

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