I Wish Aunt Emily Were Back at Home

[PrinceMyshkin]

Someone on here, someone dear to me, recently lost his brother-in-law, which reminded me of this poem I wrote for children. After I had written it, I realized that it was about the death, not very long before, of my kid-brother, Ted, at age 37, about which I was still in denial. In fact, I came to understand that the reference here to the phone was prompted by my feeling, for several weeks after his death, that the only reason I wasn't hearing from him was that I had stupidly forgotten his phone number!

And the last line - about the best I have ever written, I think - expresses both the persona's and my helplessness in the face of the incomprehensibility of death.

I wish Aunt Emily were back at home.
She went away about a month ago.
She said she'd phone.
She never did.

I guess that where she went
There aren't many phones.
I know she's not afraid
To be alone.

She's an adventurer.
She's very tall.
She's my favourite aunt.
I wish she'd call.

That's all.

J. Newman © 2006

[motherhubbard]

I felt the same way after my Aunt died. I kept waiting for a Christmas package to come. Everyday when the mail would run I would get so excited because she would always make the best gifts for me and then I would realize, oh yea, she's dead. Her death would be new to me every day at about 2:30 from thanksgiving until Christmas. The hurt would be just as fresh.

[Bii]

Jer, if you don't mind I might share this with my friend who's mother died recently. She's struggling to cope with it, as we all do.

It's a very humanising poem considering the subject matter. Nicely done.

[CdnReader]

Another of my faves, Jer. For a long time after my husband died (weeks? months?), I would go through my days collecting bits and pieces of things I wanted to tell him when he came home from work that evening... I'd hear a noise that the car was making, and think "I must remember to tell T." I'd talk with a friend and get some news about someone else we knew, and think "I must remember to tell T." I'd see that hockey tickets were still available for Saturday's game, and think "I must remember to tell T." And then, just as Mother H says above, I would have to re-confront the reality that he wasn't coming home that night, nor ever again. It was a very long process of changing realities.

[Pensive]

I have liked it very much, PrinceMyshkin! It very much relates to how a child's thoughts can be when a person dear to him leaves him forever. The writing style in this poem is very innocent (exactly like a child is expressing his views, mind me a child who can arrange words in a pretty way) and yet heart-breaking.

[Sweets America]

This is heartbreaking, yes. I totally agree with Pensive's answer.
And Cdn, I can only imagine what a sorrow you must have been through, but the thought is still very hurtful.
Prince, your beautiful mind goes on amazing me everyday. There are still so many things I don't know about you. Can we share one of your espressos someday just so that I can hear more of the story of your life?

[Pendragon]

Jerry, the sheer simplicity and meaning of that poem is masterful. Thank you for sharing it with us. If I may, I will keep a copy of it, for it is powerful!

Pen

[PrinceMyshkin]

Prince, your beautiful mind goes on amazing me everyday.

Thank you for perceiving my mind that way. It is part, however, also a cess-pool at the edge of which stands a tireless, implacable inventory-keeper who records every instance of unrequited love, every insult real or imagined.

Sometimes I wonder why I bother to keep on trying to be human?

There are still so many things I don't know about you.

Shoe size: 9 1/2. Neck size: 14. Favourite ice-cream parlour: Bilboquet on St. Bernard just west of Outremont. Guilty pleasures: Dark chocolate (as I'm a type 2 diabetic; unattainable women. Pet Peeves: arrogant or dogmatic people; anti-Semitism; rascism/bigotry of any sort

Can we share one of your espressos someday just so that I can hear more of the story of your life?

Hélas, no, as there is scarcely enough in my usual allongée for me alone but I would buy you one of your own.

[Bii]

Thank you for perceiving my mind that way. It is part, however, also a cess-pool at the edge of which stands a tireless, implacable inventory-keeper who records every instance of unrequited love, every insult real or imagined.

Therein lies the way to indigestion!

Sometimes I wonder why I bother to keep on trying to be human?

What else could you be?

[PrinceMyshkin]

Therein lies the way to indigestion!

Ah, the vomit woman speaketh!

What else could you be?

A swine, an unregenerate bigot, a misogynist or misanthrope... my God! the choices one is offered and indeed that are often imposed on us!

[Bii]

Ah, the vomit woman speaketh!

Yes, it's worrying to think that I could be the resident expert on vomit. Oh well, I guess it could be worse, I could be one of these:

A swine, an unregenerate bigot, a misogynist or misanthrope... my God! the choices one is offered and indeed that are often imposed on us!

All of which, of course, are just degrees of being human, no? One of the things that being a parent has taught me is that, whilst we like to put people into nice neat little boxes (credit to motherhubbard there, and her wonderful poem on the subject), by saying 'oh this person is kind', 'this person is arrogant', etc, etc; the fact is that we all have every possible emotion inside us, but through one means or another we do our best to suppress what we believe are the worst ones, and let out the one's we think are the best one's. Yet it's only circumstance that makes us be one thing or another.

We're all trying to be good Jer, and succeeding by varied degrees!

[PrinceMyshkin]

Who's to be absent from whom,
that's the rub
of love
as practised by the damned.

They've each perfected
the kiss
that leaves the other
unsatisfied,

the promise of passion
that dies
as soon as realized.

J. Newman Sudden Proclamations © 1992

[Granny5]

Someone on here, someone dear to me, recently lost his brother-in-law, which reminded me of this poem I wrote for children. After I had written it, I realized that it was about the death, not very long before, of my kid-brother, Ted, at age 37, about which I was still in denial. In fact, I came to understand that the reference here to the phone was prompted by my feeling, for several weeks after his death, that the only reason I wasn't hearing from him was that I had stupidly forgotten his phone number!

And the last line - about the best I have ever written, I think - expresses both the persona's and my helplessness in the face of the incomprehensibility of death.

I wish Aunt Emily were back at home.
She went away about a month ago.
She said she'd phone.
She never did.

I guess that where she went
There aren't many phones.
I know she's not afraid
To be alone.

She's an adventurer.
She's very tall.
She's my favourite aunt.
I wish she'd call.

That's all.

J. Newman © 2006

Jer, this is just lovely. I think it touches anyone who has lost someone close. You know, for years..maybe 10 really..I would get a very paniced feeling that I had not called my Mom. I would think that maybe I'd made a mistake and she really wasn't dead, I'd just forgotten to call. Then I'd call her old phone number..The finally gave it to someone else so I had to stop calling. But if they hadn't, I'd probably still be dialing that number after 28 years. Thank you for your heartfelt poem. I love it.

[ampoule]

First of all, my condolences to the person on here who lost his brother-in-law. I am sorry for your loss.

For a long time after my husband died (weeks? months?), I would go through my days collecting bits and pieces of things I wanted to tell him when he came home from work that evening... I'd hear a noise that the car was making, and think "I must remember to tell T." I'd talk with a friend and get some news about someone else we knew, and think "I must remember to tell T." I'd see that hockey tickets were still available for Saturday's game, and think "I must remember to tell T."

I understand. I still do that.


Thank you for your poem Prince. It is very tender.

[PrinceMyshkin]

I understand. I still do that.

You collect things to tell Cdn's late husband!? Is this a new category of infidelity, Posthumous Adultery!!!