On What Might Be

Adam Rogers Gillette --
 born May 22, 1984
died August 22, 2000 --
ever loved and missed.

I might be working on the menu,
calling him to ask what his request was
for a birthday feast, his 35th, a special celebration,
and all day I'd think of how it was
that afternoon I fell in love, the comments
I remember made by friends and family
who joined us for the moment
he would make his entrance.
"If the baby's just another girl," his brother
said, "I'll give her to the neighbor."
Their sisters played outside and
I could hear them through the open window
in our bedroom as the pains got harder,
faster, little time to rest between them, but I tried.
Thirty-five years later I'd be making sure
his brother wasn't working or that his sister out
in Texas could call on Face Time at a certain time to
join the "Happy Birthday" singing with the rest of us.
His other sister, I might ask to make the cake,
or help me get the house as sparkling clean as
you'd expect when welcoming someone you love.
At 35, perhaps he'd have a wife and children,
little freckled versions of that handsome face
and auburn hair. Perhaps he'd bring a story of his day
at work, or something new on the horizon, but
the conversation wouldn't really matter as we basked
together in the glow of laughter, of shared memories,
and knowing nothing of the heartache that we have instead.
This birthday and the eighteen other ones we've spent
without him have in common so much joy
there are no words to accurately describe it,
and as well, the sense of such deep loss that if it
was a painting, it would be in shades of grey and black
and if it was a poem, it might be something just like this.

On the Eve of Mama's Birthday

I thought it was another of the multitude of things:
the particles of drama, quarks of quirks that make this
place a challenge I can tolerate with promised grace
but without much left over by the end of day. As tempting
as it is to smooth the wrinkles of my words and make it sound
as if my present state of mind is overblown, I am
too honest, I'm afraid. And yet tonight I realize
that nothing of the normal nastiness may be to blame
at all. Perhaps it is, instead, the fact that in the morning,
I will wake up to the first of Mama's birthdays in my life
that will not have her voice, her breath, her joy.

I hadn't really planned on that.

The rest is ordinary stress I recognize as Life, at least
for now. Although I often do not know my place or what
my role should be at any given minute, I adjust
(and fairly quickly, since I get such frequent practice).

But how do I adjust to nothing

when the something, when the someone,

was so dear?


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2018

Sixteen. Sweet.

Happy birthday, Jasmine!

Sixteen years ago, you came into the world
and I was there to greet you, hold your
perfect little crying, squirming self.
Along the way, I've held your hand
while walking through the woods or
given you a boost to get up on the
bed, or the horse's back, or
to a higher branch. You borrow things
(sometimes you even ask!) from
closets, drawers, and make-up bags
and even though I fuss (unless you
asked) I'd like to think one reason,
far below the conscious mind, you
want whatever thing it is, is just
because it's mine, and there's a closeness
that you miss from years before
when you were little and I held
your hand. But I'm still here,
sweet girl. Still here. Sixteen is
an accomplishment, a benchmark,
cause for raucous celebration,
journey to adulthood now begun.
But you will always be the first
to bear the name of "grandchild":
grand child who's almost grown,
but not just yet. And I will always,
always, be your Nana who is
full of love for you, no matter what
the age, no matter what the
circumstances that this life might
bring, no matter what, sweet girl.
Sixteen.
Sweet.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2014