On death, without exaggeration

My grandmother died. I want to say something profound, something that will make if feel less like a sucker-punch, something that will make it ok for me to be in Morocco while my sister is so upset. I have nothing. Recently another student on my trip suffered a (I don't want to quantify grief but certainly an even more tragic) loss and I had this flash of fear for her being so far from her own family. Now I understand better than I want to. There was a moment today when I considered leaving. I don't think my family would want it and I think I would regret it. I feel helpless and motion might feel like help but I would arrive in Seattle and be just as lost for what to do.

My grandmother grew up in Nebraska and Wyoming on farms. She stopped going to school when WWII broke out. She married twice, adopted two boys and spent her life working and taking care of my sisters and I. When we came home from school, our parents were both working so she took care of us. She started to get sick a few years ago and she's spent the last few years in an assisted living facility in Nebraska.

I planned on visiting her. I never made it out there. Instead I came here. I swore to myself that I'd call her once a week. It became once a month. And then less. I didn't even call her before I left to let her know I was going to Morocco. This is the guilt of those left behind. Going home would do nothing, now. But I can't mourn here, I can't visit the places she took us as kids, I can't listen to her music or rehash old stories with my sister. She's not here. I want to be somewhere that still remembers her.

I can't go. I understand this, I understand intellectually.  I can't really think intellectually right now so I will let one of my favorite poets say what I can't really.

 

On Death, without Exaggeration

By Wislawa Szymborska 

It can't take a joke,
find a star, make a bridge.
It knows nothing about weaving, mining, farming,
building ships, or baking cakes.

In our planning for tomorrow,
it has the final word,
which is always beside the point.

It can't even get the things done
that are part of its trade:
dig a grave,
make a coffin,
clean up after itself.

Preoccupied with killing,
it does the job awkwardly,
without system or skill.
As though each of us were its first kill.

Oh, it has its triumphs,
but look at its countless defeats,
missed blows,
and repeat attempts!

Sometimes it isn't strong enough
to swat a fly from the air.
Many are the caterpillars
that have outcrawled it.

All those bulbs, pods,
tentacles, fins, tracheae,
nuptial plumage, and winter fur
show that it has fallen behind
with its halfhearted work.

Ill will won't help
and even our lending a hand with wars and coups d'etat
is so far not enough.

Hearts beat inside eggs.
Babies' skeletons grow.
Seeds, hard at work, sprout their first tiny pair of leaves
and sometimes even tall trees fall away.

Whoever claims that it's omnipotent
is himself living proof
that it's not.

There's no life
that couldn't be immortal
if only for a moment.

Death
always arrives by that very moment too late.

In vain it tugs at the knob
of the invisible door.
As far as you've come
can't be undone.