My life has been a tumult of time – January we inaugurated our Year of Play in Southern AZ. March was Vietnam and Cambodia. April: Moab. Best laid plans… Home 24 hours from the beauty and expanse of Canyonlands and Arches National Parks, I got the call everyone dreads: My dad was in the ER. Prognosis: Days to live. Within an hour I was on a plane.
The next 4 weeks were a blur. Hospital. Home. Hospice. Gut-wrenching goodbyes. Gathering. Funeral. Finding myself in the arms of family and so many friends who showed up to support us – because at such times, I have learned, we don’t even realize what it is we need. All I could see –all I am still tunnel-focused on is my mom. How, at 91, does she navigate a world without the love of her life for the past 70 years? And yet, woven in and out of the heartbreak, came the birth of two new babies – the first joys of last year’s Year of the Weddings.
The gale forces that carried me to today have subsided, somewhat. Somehow – thanks to my husband’s care and kindness– we managed to pack up our AZ home and migrate to our mountains.
I am here now, where I need to be, in the mountains – the place that anchors me to my family. My world has cracked open. And as we navigate the next chapter of caring for our mom, I look to the forest and spring’s renewal with hope.
These poems offer a short narration of my past four weeks.
How This Ends
7pm: Mom closes her eyes
trying to see, to make sense of what is near.
10pm: We surrender to frogs
chorusing in the cul-de-sac.
On the eve of resurrection,
hope lies in hospice –
the 14th station.
We won’t leave him alone;
we know how this ends.
3am: I find my way in darkness–
crawl into my sister’s bed.
Room aglow w/our phones,
we whisper, trying to make sense
of how this ends.
5am: Siblings sit in the kitchen,
whisper with my brother…
What’s happening on the ER floor?
Prognosticate about how this ends–
make a plan for morning. It is morning.
Now, thinking about what lies ahead…
call off the caregivers –
I’ll shower my mother–
Time to circle the wagons.
We know how this ends.
©draft PJF
May
We will bury my father.
She will wake without him.
I’ll see my brother for the last time.
I will write poetry again.
May will know death— and babies born
will only know a world without him.
I will gather the mail.
She will clip roses from the vine,
sip her cup of morning alone—
trace outlines of a fading stain,
absent.
©draft PJF
Home In Two Worlds
Summer woke to the shriek of a gila woodpecker
giddy at the prospect of a whole yard of mesquite
bark, undisturbed by my hundred-pound pup’s
supervision or a chuckwalla breakfasting on a luna moth.
Tomorrow, mountains will pinnacle the eastern sky. I will wake
to seasonal whiplash –re-live winter-into-spring. A dusting
of snow will sparkle still-frozen ground. A forest thaw
will follow, and perhaps by June we will bury
my father’s ashes at the base of a beloved Sugar pine.
33 years. Loved by a desert. Anchored by mountains.
©draft PJF
Patricia Franz writes picture books and poetry. She believes children, dogs, and sourdough have a lot to teach us about life, joy, and wonder. She has raised two boys, four dogs, and holds a master’s degree in Theology with a focus on children’s spirituality. Patricia, her husband, her Bernese Mountain dog, Bonny, and her sourdough starter split their time between the Arizona desert and the Sierra Nevada mountains. 
I suspect a sit spot near your dad’s sweet sugar pine will comfort you for years to come.
Yes, it will –places of the heart.
Patricia, I am so sorry for the loss of your father. I imagine him as a kind and generous man to have raised such a lovely daughter as you. I, too, always ache for the remaining spouse. I hope your mother is able to navigate this difficult time, and I hope that you all are able to find comfort from the desert and steadiness from the mountains. Sending much love.
Thank you for your kind words, Tracey.
You have had a whirlwind of emotional events. I love how poetry can offer us a space for holding all of them, the delight in nature alongside the burial of ashes, babies born and mothers left alone. Ah, me. I am sighing with you. Thanks for sharing your most vulnerable self with us.
Poetry to hold close to us. Yes.
No words…I’m glad you are home where you can be close to your mom and all of you family. You all are the model of how to show up for each other. Love remains…
Looking forward to having you here soon!
So sorry to hear about your father. Your poems are achingly beautiful, weaving moments leading up to, reactions, consolation of nature, concern about your mom and the future. Only poems can hold such grief and in their writing, facilitate healing. I did miss you in recent PFs; sorry it’s been such a hard time.
Thank you for your kind thoughts, Jama. And yes, poetry is a perfect prescription.
Emotional whiplash is a phenomena that leaves us sitting on the floor, stunned ––
and maybe, looking up…
…and walking together…baby steps. xoxo
So sorry to hear about your dad, it’s hard when you can’t do anything and have to ride that wave of loss that you know is coming. Thanks for sharing your heartfelt, and powerful poems, I think it helps. I’ve written many poems to/for my dad who passed, it will be coming on nine years this fall. My mom is still with us—she’ll be 92 in July, still painting and very cognitive and engaged. Sending hugs and thoughts your way.
I suppose the missing never goes away, does it. And you probably also know what a blessing you and your mom are to one another. Thank you, Michelle.
You are writing so lovingly, Patricia. So poignant and beautiful. There are some poems that you made me think of, like one by Heidi Priebe, which ends, “Grief is a giant neon sign, protruding through everything, pointing everywhere, broadcasting loudly, “LOVE WAS HERE”. In the finer print, quietly, “LOVE STILL IS”.
Oh, I love that…Love was here. Love still is. There is so much understanding in six small words. Thank you, Tabatha.
Patricia, I am so very sorry for the loss of your Dad. I’ve been looking for a post from you as you alluded somewhere along the line that things were not good. We have been in similar life stages, recently. Your poetry is beautiful and heartfelt. Those mornings alone, sipping her cup, will be amongst the hardest for your mom. They were for my Dad – those long entwined lives are so hard to separate and after my experience – I’m not sure they ever do. You have been in my thoughts and will continue to be. Hugs.
Thank you, Carol. Yes, so many of us are walking a similar journey. And I do see it as a blessing, if heartbreaking.
Patricia, your pain and pondering on the future is manifested in your words. I am sorry for your loss and will lift up your mother who will feel the pain of loss from her dear one of 70 years of marriage. I am amazed with the length of your parents’ years of marriage. Each one of your poems is full of details. I can imagine how difficult it was to pour out your thoughts for Poetry Friday. May you continue to busy yourself with all the tasks and be sure to find time to rest.
Oh Carol, you have walked your own journey of love and marriage and joy and loss. I have thought of you often this past month, as you led us in spiritual reflection so recently after your husband’s death –and I couldn’t find words to participate. Thank you for your prayers and encouragement! I hope you too are finding time for rest and writing.
Tears filled my eyes as I read your loving thoughts, Patricia. Your parents are a testament to true love and the family they created. May you continue to heal.
Thank you, Rose.
I am inspired by the way you (and others) write your way through grieving. My time will come. Until then, I send you and your family (especially your mom) gentle memories that soothe the hurt.
Thank you, Mary Lee. The writing doesn’t come easily right now, but it does feel soothing when I can bring words to a page.
Oh, Patricia, I am so very sorry for your loss and the sudden, disorienting ways in which it came about. (Both of my parents were on hospice in the last couple years, before they passed away, and hospice workers are angels from on high. Thank goodness for their caring and steadying hands.)
All of your poems touched me deeply. Thanks for taking the time to share them in the midst of such difficult days. ❤️
Yes, hospice angels are truly gifts. Thank you, Karen.
Patricia, these poems are like your heart laid bare on the screen, and thank you for sharing them. I’m glad you’ve got the support of your family and your mountains as you grieve, and as you continue to support your mom. xo
Thank you, Laura. These are the blessings of great love.