Blue

 I don't remember what I wore that day but 

I still see the way he plopped down on the bed

beside me just before he left to run an errand 

on his way to work- his weight, his hair and freckles,

how tall he'd grown in sixteen summers on the earth. 

He took the script I held and tested me to see if

I had learned my lines, such silly lines, a comedy

that opened within weeks. By then I'd come home, after the

applause and bows, the glass of champagne sipped, and sit 

inside the car all by myself to contemplate 

the ins and outs of joining him in heaven even though I knew 

it wasn't yet my time to go. It hurt ... so much ... that it was his.

Twenty years plus four have passed since then. Today the sky

is blue, the air both hot and heavy when it hits my thickened skin,

an accessory, don't you agree? that every grieving parent needs to own.

There was no script for this, no cues or blocking, and the others

in the cast were just as lost as I on where to stand or what to do. 

But. 

Even though the play has lasted twenty years plus four, today ... 

today the sky is blue.

(c) 2024, Ellen Gillette

Adam Gillette was in an accident during the early hours of August 20, 2000 and hospitalized for two days. Declared dead on August 22, Adam was an organ donor, saving the lives of five people and giving sight to two others.

Enough

I wouldn't say the month passed quickly.   

.

I only know that when I take a breath 

it's not the ICU I smell. (That took a while.)

We said goodbye and touched the blanket

one more time and that was that.

They called Code Hero for a donor

while inwardly we wished that he would save 

not all those others, but ... well ... us. 

The hugs made damp by falling tears.

The drugs we used to try and medicate

away the pain or catch up on our sleep.

Fragrant flowers that could not outlast our grief.

The phone calls and texts that must be made

while knowing that each bit of information 

would elicit sobs. Unanswered questions 

rise within my throat that taste of bile and dust. 

 "How are you?" people ask, although this time

I'm not the one who suffers most. But still.

The phrase I use is that I feel a little wobbly. 

What I leave unsaid is that I'm standing 

on a precipice and I know that I could sit.

I know I could avoid the wind that's picking up,

that threatens, that could blow me up to heaven,

down to hell or somewhere in between

but something in me plants my feet, defiant.

I raise a fist and yell "Enough!" as if my voice

could even carry in a storm like this. But suddenly,

sensing my resolve, the wind moves on.

The air is sweet and full of peace and that

will have to do until the next time 

Death, once more, comes near.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2023

              

Hospital Bed

Adam Rogers Gillette
b. May 22, 1984
d. August 22, 2000

He filled the bed.

Still just a boy, but already

hinting at the man he'd be

if he had not, instead

watched us crying there

from somewhere overhead

and waved goodbye.

He filled the bed

as he filled his years with ball games

of all kinds and cartwheels,

kindness, laughter, loyalty

to family, team and God,

who gifted him without revealing

it was only for awhile.

He filled the bed.

He filled his time on earth,

learning more and packing more into

his sixteen times around the sun 

than if he'd lived far longer.

He filled our hearts.

He always will.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2022

Behind Pretty Eyes

😔😑😟😣

When she said "my whole life sucks,"                                                                             

I tried to hide my disbelief. 

"How old are you?"  "Thirteen."

Good grief, I thought. A little young

for all the angst. I shrugged. "It's Friday!" 

But she shook her head. Another angle:

"Well...you're healthy. And you're pretty."

("Yes she is," her friends -- both boys -- agreed.)

I had a little sermon at the ready about

gratitude for all the blessings we enjoy

but she just shook her head, held tight

to all her misery as if it were a trusted friend. 

And then I stood there, listening. She said

that something small had made her parents mad

but somewhere in the argument, a phrase that didn't fit.

He's dying. Just a bit of drama, she assumed 

(as so would I) but later on she found a paper 

on the counter with angry knife-sharp words.

Chemo. Cancer.  Not the words a little girl

can carry all alone with grace. The face, the mask

she's wearing, is all wise cracks and complaints

but fear is sitting just behind her eyes.

The next time that she cries out 

that her whole life sucks,

the words ring true. 

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2022

Siblings Day

It's Siblings Day and Becky, older by three years,

George Swain Pendergraft
b. 2/10/1960
d. 2/25/1960

is seven hundred miles away, a little less perhaps. 

And George, the baby of we three, who would be sixty-one 

but never got to blow out candles on his birthday, 

not a single one, is even farther, walking streets of gold. 

We would have spoiled him, more than likely, 

but a baby brother might have tempered

my own tendencies to take out teeth from Becky's doll

or play the nurse, giving shots to Barbies with the ball-topped

pins from Mama's sewing box. If babies grow in  heaven,

if the elderly grow young, I picture him at twenty,

tall and strong, his red hair glowing in the city 

with no need of any sun, walking with our mother,

father, and the almost-twin who is my son.

(c)Ellen Gillette

July 1st

It feels like June was never here,

as if the record of my life was scratched;

the needle jumped and now it is July.

June bled out slowly, in reality. My mind

goes back and plays the record at

another speed to slow it down, revisit

every moment of the early part with projects

filling time and then the phone call on the 10th

that stopped the clock, the calendar,

the calm that settled in for days and weeks,

that lulled me into thinking I was fine.

Decisions, deadlines, Daddy's death

and boxes of the memories he left behind,

photographs of people with no names,

of buildings without people, trees, flowers

more than anything as if their momentary

blooms had been a lesson that we didn't

even recognize the need to learn.

Smiling children who grew up with him

would sit and weep on padded pews and later, 

shovel dirt inside the hole beside my son. 

But that was then and now it is July, too soon

and yet, in many ways, not soon enough.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2019

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

Meltdown 2018

I didn't have the meltdown as I stood there at his grave,

my shadow falling on the marker with his name

much like my shadow must have fallen

through an open doorway countless nights

when some slight noise alerted me to check the crib,

or later, just to see the childrens' shapes in bed and know

that they were safe. 

The tears did not appear beneath the wind chime 

that I couldn't reach to (hopefully) repair at home.

The tubes were guarded by a frog, some wasps, and as I

batted them away, a groundsman came to see what was

the matter. We worked together, Juan and I, and

got it down for me to take, but I could tell that he was

clearly moved that he could help a mother

at her baby's grave, and on this special day as well.

We both agreed that I would see him once again,

but longing for that far-off day (or not) did not precede

the so-familiar ache that warns my surface will be breached,

the pain about to make its way 

into the light.

At Daddy's place, I listened as they answered crossword questions,

knowing I could tell him what today was, knowing if I did that

likely in a minute, he would slip back into the  fog

where he resides, where loved ones aren't in sight

but close, and coming back, perhaps, at any time.

But as I left him, walking to the car and driving off,

a woman called who needed me to scan some documents.

My signature last week went through in portrait and she

needed landscape for the files and with so many clients 

in her care she really can't be bothered. Would I email right away 

so they can process the insurance?

That's when I lost it. 

I could hold it all together, seamlessly transitioning

from task to task, from exercise to kitchen and from getting

dressed to errands, all without a sense of stress,  until 

she called and one more thing was asked of me.

Poor lady. I could tell that she felt terrible.

But not, I think, as terrible as me. 

You see, that's what a meltdown does. 

You know they'll come, they just don't come on cue. You 

might be talking to someone about a birthday, say the words sixteen 

or son or accident or stand in line for deli meat, or see 

that one of his old friends is getting married 

and you're happy, really happy,

but you're also not. 

For just a minute, meltdowns let you wallow in the loss, 

reminding you that grief is never done, that it's

a process, and a fire that may cool down at times to

ashes and to embers, but also where the breath of God 

may blow it into flames at any time.

Reminding you that it's okay.

Make no apology for feeling.

What you feel is really not the loss at all:

It's love.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2018

A Star is Born

Laura Jane Rogers
Pendergraft,
b. 10/17/1933
d. 01/12/2018

She put in the request with management a year ago,
and wasn't happy that the resolution took its time.
Her agent sent the news this week, eyes still closed,
no one around to share it with because she'd gone so deep
into the conference call that when she moved her lips
we couldn't hear and vainly thought perhaps she had
Important Things to tell us. She did, but told us all our lives
in words and deeds and little sounds she'd make that spoke
so loudly of her views. But at the last, she just made sure
she understood her papers were in order, ticket purchased, transportation all arranged, no luggage necessary, thank you very much. The trip she wanted, longed for, hoped would come much sooner, now at last, come on! And so she took a breath and let it out, and as it went, she went as well, into the atmosphere, into the universe and then beyond. While taking note
of planets, constellations on the way, she smiled a little,
hoping that those left behind would one day made the trip
to see her (and much more) but as for now, the sights and sounds,
the scents, the wonder of it all put her in mind of movies that
she watched when just a child, the happy endings that she knew must
be a possibility, never guessing that the final scene was just the start
of something better, grander, richer.
That the movie of her life was such a tiny slice, a snippet of a story
she'd present eternally, the writing of it perfect,
direction flawless, and the cast of thousands grateful for
the chance to share the screen with such a star.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2018

Worn Thin

In 16 years, we fell in love
with all he had to offer:
temper, grin, abilities,
angel kisses sprinkled on his face.
Super Adam's hero stance,
his tenderness with Grandma Polly
and the little kids who showed
up at the door to see if he, a teen,
was home and willing.
The way he'd take on older guys
when he was just a little one himself
because he knew that they could teach him
how to be a better player,
one day... be a better man.

If only he had had the chance.

A second 16 years have passed, today.
The pillow that his sister cherished
lost his scent so long ago,
his soccer shirts now fit
the namesake nephew that
he never met.
The cut-offs I still wear
from time to time
have holes, the denim worn as thin
as all our understanding
of the reasoning behind it all.

We trust, but still
we miss
and grieve
and love.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016

Shadow

Etched upon cold granite
much deeper than the words and dates
her shadow shows an odd reality
but in reverse. It is the light
behind him which both burns and blinds 
and so he blocks it, shadows her 
from all-consuming pain
and warms, instead, her heart.


(c)Ellen Gillette, 2016

They Miss Us, Too

They miss us, too, the ones who've gone before us,

crossed the bar or bought the farm,

ascended into heaven, kicked the bucket, in repose,

asleep in Christ, to glory graduated, gone to be with God

and all his angels, all those scrubbed and sweeter, silly, 

really, ways of saying that they died. They're gone. 

Not lost, perhaps, though that's another thing we say 

until corrected by a child of three. "We know," she frowned, 

"that he's in heaven, so he can't be lost." And she was right.

It's I who's lost, still now and then, so hungry for his voice

or laugh, I want to shake my first at God, demanding

that he tell me why he took my son.

I ask and ask, but clouds have never parted, nor an angel tap

me on the shoulder, showing up at last with answers,

or excuses. Platitudes would never touch such perfect lips,

apologies (though wanted) not in keeping with the

sovereignty I cling to desperately, reminded that God's ways

are always, always best. They have to be. They must.

"I miss you so," I breathed today, surprised - though why,

I couldn't say - to hear so quickly in my heart "I miss you too."

It struck me. Miss me? In the midst of holiness,

in Paradise, eternal joy and health and bliss? "Not sadly,"

he explained,"because the joy leaves little room

for tears. More like the way you miss the green of spring 

when winter takes the leaves. It's natural, you know it has

to be, but still you miss it. Even knowing that the

green will come again, you miss the fact it hasn't come

quite yet." And that is how I know they miss us, too,

our voices and our laughter, miss the times

of fun on earth, because...for now...those memories 

are what they talk about, when worship takes a rest,

the other duties, play times, all the things that

perfect people might enjoy. Not being perfect,

I can only speculate, but this I know:

Their bodies died; we miss those bodies still.

Their love did not, nor did our own. And never will.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016

Fade to Black

The time he missed his cue,
so caught up in a story with
the others, just relaxing in
the green room, that he never made
his entrance, leaving Captain Keller
and myself to cover for his lines,
I teased him but he never got
defensive, knew he'd blown the scene
and knew it didn't really matter in
the bigger scheme of things. He never
lost his cool, not that I ever saw,
and now he's gone, the final exit,
one cue that I wish he'd missed
but also sensing, as his daughter
said,  he knew deep down he'd leave
us early, packing in a dozen lifetimes
into one. Adoring audience tonight.
The ham in him would have to be so
pleased that every seat was taken,
throngs of people standing
there along the edges and the back,
the piper playing sweet, sad music
as the swordsmen gave a last salute,
and far offstage, a fade to black,
awakening to brighter light than
any follow spot he could imagine,
brighter than his love and smile,
and that is saying (if you knew him)
quite a lot.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Puzzling Transformations

Our youngest son Adam
the year he passed away- the photo
was taken at the door of the house
we live in now, when it was
still his grandparents', 

If he could walk back through the door,
the one he's walked through many times,
just open it and yell, "I'm home!"
would he recognize the bones of it with
all the changes, nipping, tucking at it until
it's altogether something new? The carpet's
gone, the walls are blue and all the furnishings
are ones he saw but never here, an odd sensation
it might be. It's not the house that troubles me,
of course, but thinking that a puzzled look would sweep
his face because we've changed since last he saw us.
Older, sharper edges when some softening might be
what he'd expect. If given time with him alone,
I could explain the reasons why I'm different -
I can't speak for anybody else - because I always
found it easy to discuss the in's and out's and
up's and down's of life with him.  He had, apparently,
an endless store of grace from which to pull,
(are gift in one so young). He never judged,
expecting that the people whom he loved would get
around to doing what was right - they would,
he knew they would, and knew that he could wait
until they did, and if the right was not exactly what
some people thought it was, he'd grin and shake
his head and let you know he understood. He's waiting
still, his vantage point much better (if such watching
is allowed) but there are times I'm almost glad he isn't
here to witness some of what we've had to face, the petty
things, the crushing crises that cannot come even close
to what it felt like when he left, but still, they hurt.

And then I think, how stupid are you, woman?
As if Now would look like this at all,
if we had not had Then.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015