two twin sisters

wearing sage-green tights

draw pink jaguars

on a broken sidewalk,

sunlight caressing

their strawberry blonde curls

Uber-fans, like me, of the 1979 classic All That Jazz will recognize those lyrics from a film that chronicles one man’s journey toward his demise. The movie is chockful of spectacular performances and never fails to fill my eyes with tears.

Yesterday, less than a month after my own mother passed away, I attended the funeral of a beloved uncle. Sitting there, during what seemed an interminable though well-intended sermon, it occurred to me that I’ve reached that stage in life where one by one, my elders and eventually my familial peers will eventually meet the same fate. As will I…

There will be more funerals, the gaps between each one and the next more slender; they will not occur as infrequently as they did even ten years ago. My mother’s remaining six sisters’ and their spouses’ bodies are in decline, some more evident than others. My husband’s family, even larger, tells the same story.

We will be attired in black, yet again, many times in the coming days, weeks, months and years. None of us know the when only that the if will never fit inside the equation. Never has.

Angelique, the Angel of Death, who troubles and endears Joe Gideon in the film, is beautiful and charismatic. Joe both adores and fears her. Not yet, he tells her at one point, and she demurs, backs away, allows him to live a bit longer.

May we all live – well and truly! – just a bit longer though one day, this same inevitability will arrive for each of us.

humidity creeps back up

soaring temps and ragweed too —

I look towards frost & drier air,

the chill of autumn’s overlay

*

to breathe freely again,

to step outside,

to enjoy nature

& the wide-open outdoors

a child wraps herself

around the milk-chocolate feathers

of a bantam chicken,

its fleshy red comb wobbles

as the young girl’s grip

tightens with affection,

then loosens in apprehension

that borders on fear

as the hen clucks and shimmies,

anxious for its freedom

to root and strut and peck

in the dust and strewn feed

with the rest of its impassive flock  

the boy is a puzzle

inconsistencies abound and yet,

occasional wisdom, keen insight

gems I never possessed

when I was his age

sometimes, lacking even now —

how, I wonder, did that come to be?