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

Clean Up Aisle 3

A bottle will not bounce,
in case you wondered.
Not at Walmart anyway,
aisle 3, cheap wine
that wasn't such a waste
that I felt guilty at the slip.
It had to be reported
to the check-out girl, of course.
You wouldn't want some idiot
to send a child to fetch
Aunt Mamie's fav'rite Cabernet,
instead returning rather wet
and with a smell of Zinfandel
upon his summer uniform:
t-shirt and shorts, and flip-flops
not quite thick enough to keep
a shard of glass from making contact
with his foot. I spoke up quickly,
though; no blood was spilled.
Deciding that a slightly better brand
was worth the trip and trouble,
I then announced the breakage,
only pseudo-helpful, since it fell
from my own hand upon the polished floor.
It never crossed my mind to offer
payment, as it wasn't quite yet mine.
But walking to the car, I smiled
and thought of all these things, and knew
exactly who would see the drop,
the shattering, the waste, as heaven's sign
my lips should never, ever taste that wicked wine.
I'll raise a toast of better vintage
(only slightly) after showering,
with thanks and glass both lifted high
to heaven, quite convinced that choice of beverage
is but one of many choices
that are no one's business but my own.



(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