Step into the light poor Lazarus/Don't die alone behind the window shade/
Let me see the mark death made/I dream a highway back to you
-Gillian Welch
There are lots of Katherines and Catherines there. Some Katies and Kitties but few Kates. On good days I make sure to visit my favorites: Ms. Peach Wayland, The Meachem Family, Agnes Plum, Stonewall Jackson Kerns and his son, Adelbert Jackson Kearns. On bad days I consider laying down amongst the McCathran clan until the damp green ground of their plot accepts the persistent weight of my tired bones.
Today is neither good nor bad, though, so I sit on the slope of the far hill and watch the birds peck at things I can not see. An old man follows his dog along the muddy path below and when he looks up and sees me, doffs his cap with a sweeping bow. I touched three dead bodies this week I say aloud to the birds. Three men who were alive one minute and then not alive the next. I think of everything it means to be dead and then I think of all the ways to be dead while you are alive and the way to come back to life, which requires another kind of dying, too. In my notebook I write DEAD in all capital letters and below it
CHERRYRED UNWED INBRED SOFABED WIDESPREAD TALKINGHEAD
which makes me laugh aloud to myself. Underneath my rhyme I sketch crude outlines of headstones and fill them in with my best gothic handwriting:
Today is neither good nor bad, though, so I sit on the slope of the far hill and watch the birds peck at things I can not see. An old man follows his dog along the muddy path below and when he looks up and sees me, doffs his cap with a sweeping bow. I touched three dead bodies this week I say aloud to the birds. Three men who were alive one minute and then not alive the next. I think of everything it means to be dead and then I think of all the ways to be dead while you are alive and the way to come back to life, which requires another kind of dying, too. In my notebook I write DEAD in all capital letters and below it
CHERRYRED UNWED INBRED SOFABED WIDESPREAD TALKINGHEAD
which makes me laugh aloud to myself. Underneath my rhyme I sketch crude outlines of headstones and fill them in with my best gothic handwriting:
KATE
who tried her best to be kind
to drunks & addicts
who pissed on the floor & her shoes
or
Here lies KATE
who believed in
at least 100 second chances
or even just
KATE
who was usually on time
but is now truly late.
I sit on the side of the hill until I hear the bells from the church down the road. Long after their carolling ends, their message floats over the acres of graves. I sit as still as I can in the near dark and listen. Let the dead bury the dead. Go back to your living. And for heaven's sake, be thankful you were not named for a Civil War general.
1 comment:
When you are inspired, Kate, your writing is nonpareil — beyond compare. Fraught with emotional power, replete with meaning, and chock-full of creative imagery, even your prose becomes poetry. I just love reading it.
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