Loss happens

Wow.  What a week.  

Naomi Shibab Nye, a poet I love, speaks of teaching young children to write poetry.  One of the exercises she uses is to ask them to write a list of what they have lost.  The lists go on and on.  Small things, large things.  Young children, mind you.  When we get older, we tend to categorize things into big and small losses.  Of course it depends on who you are and how you categorize big and small.  Still.  Loss is loss.  It is personal, intensely personal.  Sometimes we make casseroles for others, and sometimes we receive them.

Loss happens.

Inevitably

Loss happens.

If it doesn*t happen to us today,

This week,

Our mortality still sits

On our shoulders,

On the shoulders of those

We love.

It whispers in our ear.

It reminds us that this is what we get.

Pay attention.

This is what you get.

Some weeks, like this week,

It piles on.

The only thing we can do

Really do

Is hold someone*s hand.

Perhaps,

Bring a casserole,

The time-honored casserole,

Somehow macaroni and cheese

In times like these,

Maybe even a spiral-cut ham

Offers something.

Sometimes it is our turn

To answer the doorbell,

Receive the ham.