FIRST YEAR MILESTONES are often overlooked as a time to honor the painful moments we move through without our loved ones. Planning a small ritual to acknowledge and name the event, first BIRTHDAYS, first HOLIDAYS, maybe with a lit candle by a photo, and a poem read aloud, is enough. Find ceremony templates here.
Now I am gone, now I am lost to you
Find me again just as you used to do:
In the house – when you go from room to room you’ll find
The bits and pieces that I’ve left behind.
In the street – of course . . . I’ve stopped to window-shop;
You carry on, my love, I’ll catch you up.
At night – as darkness slowly fills the sky:
I’m late; don’t fret; I’ll be there by and by.
At morning – when the sky is still blue-black,
I had to go out early: I’ll be back.
In sunshine – as you peer into the glare –
A shape that seems to be both light and air.
In rain – as you look out and people pass –
One leaves a reflection printed on the glass.
In the garden – when you doze away the hours
I pass with a smile on my face, and my arms full of flowers.
“There, peeping among the cloud-wrack above a dark tower
high up in the mountains, Sam saw a white star twinkle for a while.
The beauty of it smote his heart, as he looked up
out of the forsaken land, and hope returned to him.
For like a shaft, clear and cold, the thought pierced him
that in the end the Shadow was only a small and passing thing:
there was light and high beauty for ever beyond its reach.”
It is easily forgotten, year to
year, exactly where the plot is,
though the place is entirely familiar
a willow tree by a curving roadway
sweeping black asphalt with tender leaves;
damp grass strewn with flower boxes,
canvas chairs, darkskinned old ladies
circling in draped black crepe family stones,
fingers cramped red at the knuckles, discolored
nails, fresh soil for new plants, old rosaries;
such fingers kneading the damp earth gently down
on new roots, black humus caught in grey hair
brushed back, and the single waterfaucet,
birdlike upon its grey pipe stem,
a stream opening at its foot.
We know the stories that are told,
by starts and stops, by bent men at strange joy
regarding the precise enactments of their own
gesturing. And among the women there will be
a naming of families, a counting off, an ordering.
The morning may be brilliant; the season
is one of brilliances sunlight through
the fountained willow behind us, its splayed
shadow spreading westward, our shadows westward,
irregular across damp grass, the close-set stones.
It may be that since our walk there is faltering,
moving in careful steps around snow-on-the-mountain,
bluebells and zebragrass toward that place
between the willow and the waterfaucet, the way
is lost, that we have no practiced step there,
and walking, our own sway and balance, fails us.
Michael Anania, "Memorial Day" from Selected Poems
Do not hurry
As you walk with grief;
It does not help the journey.
Do not hurry
As you walk with grief.
While I was fearing it, it came,
But came with less of fear,
Because that fearing it so long
Had almost made it dear.
There is a fitting a dismay,
A fitting a despair.
'Tis harder knowing it is due,
Than knowing it is here.
The trying on the utmost,
The morning it is new,
Is terribler than wearing it
A whole existence through.
We trust that beyond absence there is a presence.
That beyond the pain there can be healing.
That beyond the brokenness there can be wholeness.
That beyond the anger there may be peace.
That beyond the hurting there may be forgiveness.
That beyond the silence there may be the word.
That beyond the word there may be understanding.
That through understanding there is love.
The sentinels of trees this morning.
I sat in the garden and contemplated.
The serenity and beauty
Of my feelings and surroundings
Completely captivated me.
I thought of you.
I discovered you tucked away
In the shadows of the trees.
Then, rediscovered you
In the smiles of the flowers
As the sun penetrated their petals
In the rhythm of the leaves
Falling in the garden
In the freedom of the birds
As they fly searching as you do.
I’m very happy to have found you,
Now you will never leave me
For I will always find you in the beauty of life.
I shall live beyond death, and I shall sing in your ears
Even after the vast sea-wave carries me back
To the vast sea-depth.
I shall sit at your board though without a body,
And I shall go with you to your fields, a spirit invisible.
I shall come to you at your fireside, a guest unseen.
Death changes nothing but the masks that cover our faces.
The woodsman shall be still a woodsman,
The ploughman, a ploughman,
And he who sang his song to the wind shall sing it also to
the moving spheres.
From The Garden of The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran