N a p a l m H e a l t h S p a : R e p o r t 2 0 0 9
Mist in view
Urine soaks my pants from improper squatting
A younger monk takes my arm
walks me through public streets to Amitabha
Just holding hands in the mid-morning dust
My Danish grandma
Settled in Ft. Scott, Kansas, after the transition through NYC
Her funeral, was a surprise by her daughter, who discovered all the
individuals that had been touched by her hand and soul.
My mother collapsing from grief in the San Francisco airport.
My tomboy sister, with panic in her face, crooked lipstick applied by
a person concerned with life over vanity.
Grandma's first name is Mary.
She was proud of her gooseberry's that grew along the concrete drive
with her beloved two tone blue push button Dodge parked. She drove
10 mpg in a 30 mpg zone.
Line of cars in the review mirror. But nobody seemed to care.
Grandma dressed up in new hose and a hat when shopping in town.
She loved Perry Mason, always sent $5 from her SSI check to her
grandchildren for birthdays.
She sewed frog bean bags for gifts (which were very grounding
objects, handmade for each of us out of love, duty, and the wisdom of
paying attention to people more than herself) She had a thrift store
found object doll factory in her back room, where she recycled old
parts to make a brand new damaged, but rebounding dolls to give away
to the church for children,
She lived at the "poverty line," but she was not poor, a common
statement, but true.
Her legs were damaged by doctor's experiments to correct her bow-
legged features - to help bow-legged people, not be bow-legged.
She spent her remaining years with her God, adjusting her wig in her
wheelchair, prodding strangers to come close to engage, and speak
some truths before she died,
I could have been a much better grandson, but it was Ok.
Because I challenged her, and she confided with me about death.