The Thread

Couldn’t think of much of a way to finish off the theme of the last few days: Peace and grief. Most posts I don’t need to finish anything up. But you know, when you write raw, you figure you should say you weren’t too much the worse for wear in the morning, sort of like if you’d reported on an evening of drinking and need to mention the hang over. There’s a bit of that feel to an episode of grief. A remnant remains.

So I was thinking of this thread of events that ran from the memories of the peace event to the grief, and the way I didn’t, at first, see the line that was forming so that the wave that hit me was a surprise. It’s the way grief comes. A wave of grief. A wave of nausea. Like that.

The wave also had something to do with a movie my daughter invited me to watch with her. I didn’t think it looked like a very good movie, but the invite was sincere, and so we cuddled up on the couch under a quilt and watched “P.S. I Love You.” I left that part out but it was the emotional whammy. I always hate to admit it when movies affect me. But this one did. It was a movie about grief.

The progression then, was memories of the peace event, the return of the book “Early Morning,” the movie, the grief, and finally the way that my love affair with that particular event took a twist as I connected with Kim Stafford’s grief and began wondering if the quality that had made it so remarkable in the first place came from that precious place. Maybe even that all poetry and peacemaking does. Grief just doesn’t stay confined.

Then I opened my just returned copy of “Early Morning,” holding the dear old friend lovingly, and found the first of many poems laced through Kim Stafford’s memoir of his dad.

That’s the way the book strikes me. It’s a memoir. It’s about the memoirist’s dad.

Here’s the poem as printed in “Early Morning,” which is, as I thought I remembered, a Graywolf Press book (a name I misspelled when I mentioned it two posts back, something that I did when we had the coffee shop too. Funny how memory works. The misspelling reminded me of the calendars I used to print with “Latte’s of the Day” named after the various businesses on the block. It was a little embarrassing, me being a writer, when the head of Graywolf, a lovely woman named Fiona came in, and said, “You know you misspelled our name.” If you’re out there, Fiona, I apologize again and hope I have your blessing on posting this poem.)

This invisible thread propelling the action.

The Way It Is

There’s a thread you follow. It goes among
things that change. But it doesn’t change.
People wonder about what you are pursuing.
You have to explain about the thread.
But it is hard for others to see.
While you hold it you can’t get lost.
Tragedies happen; people get hurt
or die; and you suffer and get old.
Nothing you do can stop time’s unfolding.
You don’t ever let go of the thread.

William Stafford