We wrote my father letters after he died, the children also. Wrote him pages and after two weeks, waiting on the medical and legal machine, could finally say goodbye. I wished we could have had a wake and that I could have sat with him not for minutes but for hours, maybe days. I needed to be with him even though all that were still him were his eyebrows. The letters, tucked in next to him, consigned with him, to ashes.
Aieee. After 13 hours of travel, two cancelled flights, endless lines of enraged people, hotel rooms, trips to the airport and back, and a brother’s memorial, I’m sitting here in a hotel room in Buffalo New York. On the whole, I think I’d prefer standing on a corner in Winslow, Arizona.
Your poem was providential, Sherman. I had a complicated relationship with my brother. There was physical and emotional abuse, along with laughter and kind acts from a good heart that was cracked open too young.
My brother had terminal colon and liver cancer, but he refused to tell anyone. I found out a day before he passed away when it was too late to see him.
He had a vision of himself as John Wayne riding alone into the sunset with no one around him, and no one knowing what he was going through. He refused to take any morphine, so I know his struggle was long and hard.
I only knew about 1/3 of the people at his memorial- my cousins and his ex wife. Who sort of seemed like his not-really-ex-wife. She was still family, in spite of their divorce. I know a few of my cousins would beg to differ.
I found myself completely numbed out. It was like I was watching somebody else go through the motions of a long, personal trail of grief.
I was devastated that he didn’t want me to know or to see him before he died. I knew how intensely private he was, so I didn’t really expect that he would want others to see him like that. But I never ever believed that as his blood, he wouldn’t have at least told me. It shook the foundations of everything I know to be true in life. Hence, the shock and numbness I have felt.
Thank you for your poem. It loosened the floodgates.
Oh wow, powerful. I’m sorry for all your losses. Such empty words we say. And yet when I’ve said my husband died and a service person says “I’m sorry for your loss” it means a lot. And when they say nothing and move on with their script, I feel slighted. A friend years ago killed himself and although I too sent something to read I would not attend his funeral. Too angry I guess. And hurt. Put down the bat, Alexie.
I didn't listen to you read it as I usually do. I read it myself and as I read further, I started to hyperventilate and by the end I was speed reading through it while still understanding every word, bringing in my own pain and unexposed grief, with tears plinking down my cheeks. I will listen to you read it but right now I can't. Thank you for this emotional but cathartic afternoon break.
I can't think of one person that wouldn't find her- or himself in this poem. "Regret is a monster. Shame is a beast." I don't know if I can read/listen to this poem again, but I know undoubtedly that I'll want it handy at some point in my future.
I remember in one of your earliest writings I read on Substack you said you had wanted to be a pediatrician? My first profession was that of a pediatric nurse. The grief I had to bury, still bury. And there is no escaping that. When there was a gulf between good intentions and actual response.
I've printed out others' responses to "The Undiscovered Country" - what an intriguing title - to guide me in the work I still obviously need to do. Thank you, as always.
So many friends and even people who influenced me a lot have died. And I hardly go to wakes and funerals. I hate them. I want to remember the happy memories only. I have Indian heritage too.
The words. The flow. I'm moved by the flowing words expressing crippling grief, pain, and regret. So moved.
Thank you.
So wordless after reading this now five times. You are a mystical magician and much blessed. Thank you for this one.
Thank you, Jeff
We wrote my father letters after he died, the children also. Wrote him pages and after two weeks, waiting on the medical and legal machine, could finally say goodbye. I wished we could have had a wake and that I could have sat with him not for minutes but for hours, maybe days. I needed to be with him even though all that were still him were his eyebrows. The letters, tucked in next to him, consigned with him, to ashes.
Thank for you sharing this.
Thank you, Sherman.
Aieee. After 13 hours of travel, two cancelled flights, endless lines of enraged people, hotel rooms, trips to the airport and back, and a brother’s memorial, I’m sitting here in a hotel room in Buffalo New York. On the whole, I think I’d prefer standing on a corner in Winslow, Arizona.
Your poem was providential, Sherman. I had a complicated relationship with my brother. There was physical and emotional abuse, along with laughter and kind acts from a good heart that was cracked open too young.
My brother had terminal colon and liver cancer, but he refused to tell anyone. I found out a day before he passed away when it was too late to see him.
He had a vision of himself as John Wayne riding alone into the sunset with no one around him, and no one knowing what he was going through. He refused to take any morphine, so I know his struggle was long and hard.
I only knew about 1/3 of the people at his memorial- my cousins and his ex wife. Who sort of seemed like his not-really-ex-wife. She was still family, in spite of their divorce. I know a few of my cousins would beg to differ.
I found myself completely numbed out. It was like I was watching somebody else go through the motions of a long, personal trail of grief.
I was devastated that he didn’t want me to know or to see him before he died. I knew how intensely private he was, so I didn’t really expect that he would want others to see him like that. But I never ever believed that as his blood, he wouldn’t have at least told me. It shook the foundations of everything I know to be true in life. Hence, the shock and numbness I have felt.
Thank you for your poem. It loosened the floodgates.
One of the most powerful and insightful pieces I've heard/read from you, thank you. It's funny how we react to others pain.
Thank you, Mary Kay.
Oh wow, powerful. I’m sorry for all your losses. Such empty words we say. And yet when I’ve said my husband died and a service person says “I’m sorry for your loss” it means a lot. And when they say nothing and move on with their script, I feel slighted. A friend years ago killed himself and although I too sent something to read I would not attend his funeral. Too angry I guess. And hurt. Put down the bat, Alexie.
I didn't listen to you read it as I usually do. I read it myself and as I read further, I started to hyperventilate and by the end I was speed reading through it while still understanding every word, bringing in my own pain and unexposed grief, with tears plinking down my cheeks. I will listen to you read it but right now I can't. Thank you for this emotional but cathartic afternoon break.
Exquisite portrayal of regret!
Mixed drink! Corsage! Shame! Deeply sorry for your loss. Beautiful poem.
I can't think of one person that wouldn't find her- or himself in this poem. "Regret is a monster. Shame is a beast." I don't know if I can read/listen to this poem again, but I know undoubtedly that I'll want it handy at some point in my future.
I remember in one of your earliest writings I read on Substack you said you had wanted to be a pediatrician? My first profession was that of a pediatric nurse. The grief I had to bury, still bury. And there is no escaping that. When there was a gulf between good intentions and actual response.
I've printed out others' responses to "The Undiscovered Country" - what an intriguing title - to guide me in the work I still obviously need to do. Thank you, as always.
A loving and poignant ode to your childhood friend. I believe he knows.
Beautiful
Damn you, Sherman, for making me cry.
Why is guilt so deeply bound to grief?
I was plagued by guilt, remorse, and regrets layered on top of grief after my grandma died.
The failure to reply to her last letter.
The failure to send her last birthday gift.
The decision to call her the next day instead of that day, which was when she was to have a stroke.
Then, a few months later, I found a letter she wrote me that began, “GUILTY! GUILTY! GUILTY!”
She was apologizing for taking so long to reply to my last letter.
And then I realized … I was exactly like her. She was exactly like me.
In an instant, all was forgiven. Because there was nothing to forgive.
Only regrets at having lost the opportunity to speak with her one last time.
But I am forever grateful for that letter she sent me from beyond the grave.
And I know that, in my procrastination, in my failures, I am carrying on her legacy.
And she understands. And laughs. And so do I.
So many friends and even people who influenced me a lot have died. And I hardly go to wakes and funerals. I hate them. I want to remember the happy memories only. I have Indian heritage too.