Open Season

My mother’s hand the last morning as I sit alone with her—

already gone, though forehead still warm, petunias

outside the window, orange pink, bruised

as those on the narrow path once outside our home.

Light clings like mud to her flaking skin,

revealing fine cuts near her mouth,

“like paper,” they said as if clearing it with us

a technical problem that could be solved somehow.

Threads of hair I brush off her face,

dark flooded eyes ignore all warnings,

mouth once an open smile now hollow cheeks

fashioning a skull, despite how she knew everything.

I cannot understand how this brain interruption

can happen— where is the dividing line—

her childhood, the past

her adulthood, the past

old age, the past. Her eyes

coals over an open fire

warmed—

what she carries within

now fills this room.

Form

My mother recited the ventricles of the heart,

anatomy learned in undergrad biology

sitting in her wheelchair—

lay alone all those nights

room shared with a screaming woman

imposed structure not suitable.

How is my own survival now different than hers

also at the mercy of those unsuited to their professions

like coyotes they stumble in a stink

guiding their charges across a desert.

In the nursing home, her diaper waiting half an hour for the R.A.

where chair, bed, lights, even air flow were determined,

TV cocked at an angle for a woman

who would never have one in her own bedroom,

who would hum to the classical station.

Her brain exploded,

ribbon torn—

and my mother, who loved form—

how could she form words,

electrical impulses bleating

in what was left of her brain.

Yet letters on a page, her handwriting was almost perfect

years of calligraphy instilled.

Survival is studied by scientists

but goes beyond adjustment, speed,

and adrenaline,

beyond fitting pegs in holes.

Saying Goodbye to Al Hackett

The memorial for family friend Al Hackett this past Saturday, December 3rd, took place at the Church by the Side of the Road in Berkeley. As I sat in the row behind the Hackett kids and their mother Dorothy, I thought about how the event was meant for the family. Winston and Marty were tearful. Of course, for me, it brings back memories of losing my father (Sol Benjamin) suddenly in December 1999. And more recently, last year, my Mother, Thelma. So when I weep, it is not only for Al, but the loss of my parents.

Al was as much the fabric of my childhood as my father. They came from different places. Al from Texas, my father from Brooklyn, Al’s father a slave and my father’s father escaping the pogroms as a Russian Jew. When they came of age as young men, they fought for our country-- Al overseas in the Buffalo Soldiers, my father as an aircraft engineer stationed in North Carolina. And because of the war and the G.I. Bill, they both ended up in college, part of their moral compass, Al as a teacher, my father a social worker. Because there was such a thing as a moral compass then, as much as lapels, hats, sport jackets, and pipes—the fabric of men in our society at the time.

Growing up in a multi-cultural neighborhood as I did in Richmond in the 1960s was my normal. The street my family lived on -- Castilla Avenue-- was separated by an alleyway to the street where the Hackett family lived. l spent so much time in that house, as I did with other friends on those blocks, typical for that time. No play dates, just running into each other’s houses. But now I see that neighborhood as a unique environment. People of different ethnicities and origins. Dorothy Hackett pointed out the other day that both blue collar and white collar professions shared the neighborhood, as she alluded to diversity as much as people coming together to build a community. Al and Dorothy and my parents were dedicated to a world their own parents had survived, where they fought for freedoms.

Today, I see the Hacketts fairly regularly. I have always felt comfortable and at home with them. They are my family. At the memorial, what struck me was that other people echoed that feeling. Their family too.

Dear Al, I have been mourning your death, even as I know that at the end you were in discomfort, that you outlived your body and mind, not able to finally speak. You finally passed, the day after receiving your eldest daughter Tish who had come from Michigan to see you. You waited until after your 62nd wedding anniversary. I remember your 50th in 2005, and how you sang to Dorothy in your beautiful tenor voice. And that's how I think of you— at home, playing the piano and singing a jazz standard. Gentle, human, warm, funny, a long-winded story-teller. Your smile welcoming me into your home, saying "Hi, sweet."