Little Bit Here, Little Bit There

Mother,

Every year or so I read selections from Raymond Carver’s collected poems, All Of Us. Most people remember Carver as a writer – The Guardian Newspaper called him the American Chekov – but not that many read his poetry. Even our friend, Wendy, a poet in her own right, only knew of his prose. It might be his style which is kinda of a narrative poetry. Tess Gallagher, his wife and literary collaborator wrote, “From early to late, the poems are beautifully clear, and this clarity, like the sweet clang of spring water to the mouth, needs no apology. … Who wouldn’t be disarmed by poetry which requires so much less of us than it unstintingly gives.”

Carver wrote about all facets of life but he hit alcoholism and sexual betrayal hard. I guess that falls under what Tess calls his inventory of domestic havoc, and it’s the turbulent stuff I’d flip pages searching for.

Here’s one:

The Other Life

My wife is in the other half of this mobile home
making a case against me
I can hear her pen scratch, scratch.
Now and then she stops to weep,
then – scratch, scratch.

The frost is going out of the ground.
The man who owns this unit tells me,
Don’t leave your car here.
My wife goes on writing and weeping,
weeping and writing in our new kitchen.

But since you died I’ve been reading Carver’s later work, written after he dried out, and after his diagnosis. More reflective, just as emotional, it’s all emotional, but maybe more redemptive. And longer poems too. I seem to have more patience, which might be why I can read the cartoon strip, Zippy, without getting a headache. I don’t think you knew Zippy. I know your local paper didn’t carry the strip, because if it had I would’ve paused during our crossword puzzles to show it to you. I really wish I had. I wonder if Zippy will lead a parade of I wish I hads. I doubt it. We talked about your friend cleaning up her husband’s brains from the living room floor, your mother hiding her abortion from your father, many unmentionables in my early life, your brother’s death, heck even your death. T’wasn’t much we didn’t share. Anyway, Adam warned me not look for a punch line, to read it like a smear of life – a bizarre smear to be sure. I do that and now I just laugh. Diane said, “What a strange grief reaction.” Then I unfolded the paper to today’s strip and she said, “What a psychotic grief reaction.” Kidding, of course,

But I’m straying. These are confusing times and maybe straying is now the norm. This morning I opened “All of Us” and found you:

My Death

If I’m lucky, I’ll be wired every whichway
in a hospital bed. Tubes running into
my nose. But try not be scared of me, friend!
I’m telling you right now that this is okay.
It’s little enough to ask for at the end.
Someone. I hope. Will have phoned everyone
to say, “Come quick, he’s failing!”
And they will come. And there will be time for me
to bid goodbye to each of my loved ones.
If I’m lucky, they’ll step forward
and I’ll be able to see hem one last time
and take that memory with me.
Sure, they might lay eyes on me and want to run away
and howl. But instead, since they love me,
they’ll lift my hand and say “Courage.”
or “It’s going to be all right.”
It’s just fine. If you only knew how happy you’ve made me!
I just hope my luck holds, and I can make
some sign of recognition.
Open and close my eyes as if to say,
“Yes, I hear you. I understand you.”
I may even manage something like this:
“I love you too. Be happy.”
I hope so! but I don’t want to ask for too much.
If I’m unlucky, as I deserve, well, I’ll just
drop over, like that, without any chance
for farewell, or to press anyone’s hand.
Or say how much I cared for you and enjoyed
your company all these years. In any case,
try not to mourn for me too much. I want you to know
I was happy when I was here.
and remember I told you this a while ago – April 1984.
but be glad for me if I can die in the presence
of friends and family. If this happens, believe me,
I came out ahead, I didn’t lose this one.

No tubes, but pretty much everything else fits. You comforted those who came to comfort you. You said, “I love you too.” That was true not only of your last days but of your last year. Sometime, maybe after you nearly shriveled up and died while Mack was boiling potatoes, your hard edges dissolved. But what really inspired this letter was not what you had become, but what has become of you. The details are sketchy because I’ve learned it all second hand, and therefore they’ll be abrupt and less entertaining, but here’s what I’ve heard.

We followed your wishes and sent your body off to a crematorium. Joan, this won’t surprise you , found the cheapest one in Evansville. Well, first she located the cheapest funeral home, but since they didn’t have a kiln or whatever it is one uses to reduce bodies to white flakes, the funeral home shipped you elsewhere. Of that, saving pennies, you would’ve approved. And you would’ve laughed when a friend of mine said, “At that price they must have put her in an oven on self-clean.”

This cremation thing is a little bit odd for me, given how adamant I was those many years ago, when I demanded a place to visit. I didn’t want your ashes tossed into the wind; I wanted a burial plot like the one in Kansas where Mack’s family lies. Our argument came not long after your brother died. Gee, you always wanted to be cremated. I assumed it was because you didn’t want the bother of a burial, or the ceremony, or even the demand of the tiny piece of land. What I knew I needed was a place to visit, to weep if need be, but somewhere where I knew you’d always be.

Anyway, Peter flew your ebony box of ashes back to Hawaii and shook many of them onto the black floor of Kilauea, the volcano you fell in love with. I heard he was surprised at how few ashes were in the box, mostly packing peanuts he said. I wondered if that spoke to your final weight – eighty-eight pounds – or how poorly they swept out the Magic Chef.

Then Peter, not right away, carried more of your ashes to sprinkle into the deep blue sea. On his way he met another man carrying his mother’s ashes to the water – that could only happen to Peter – and they journeyed together. Finally, he flew the rest of you back to Evansville and asked his father if he could bury them in your garden, but Mack said, “The ground is too wet.” You know, Mother, when I think of it, this little bit here, little bit there scheme makes me suspect Peter is having as much difficulty letting go of you as I am.