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

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