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.
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.
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.
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…
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.
Emotional whiplash is a phenomena that leaves us sitting on the floor, stunned ––
and maybe, looking up…
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”.
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.