Sorrow-based cloth

Autumn started here much like how it did in Italy. One day summer, the calendar and earth record a day and the next day clear cool weather and a slanted light that shows new things in what had been shadow.

I was up before dawn yesterday listening to the owls. They had a long and animated talk while day got closer. Yesterday it got up to into the mid 70’s but the humidity was so low and a nice wind was blowing. This morning it was “chilly”, mid 40’s, the birds were fluffed and puffed and huddled on the deck waiting for their feeders. (I’ve put out the first suet feeder for anyone migrating and needing extra chow.) I noted a number of finches scouring the sunflowers for the last seeds; in fact, there is one there right now dining.

I spent a lot of time these past few days thinking about missing people. Not just those that are somewhere else and I miss them, though there is a lot of that. Not just those that have passed out of my life through time, neglect, hurt and silence. And of course, those gone from the world. Missing and grief go hand in hand, in many instances they wear the same sorrow-based cloth. There is the same number of words you can throw into the wind hoping it will attach itself to dust, pollen, winged things and get the words where they need to go. The type of missing people I was thinking about are all those missing through societal neglect. Because when it comes down to it, that’s what it is. As a country (though we are not the only one) we have decided who is worth saving and who is worth looking for when they have disappeared. Those women, those children and those men who “go missing” weren’t part of an overnight turn of events. America for years has been busy selecting who can live, who has worth. It’s what the country – every country? – is built on. We continue to have that striding toward our promise of a better nation, but we have grown accustomed to the pushing others aside and forgetting they exist so that when one of their loved ones, one of their precious children (we are all someone’s child) only those few who matter (to the press, to the police, to those _____ ) get seen as someone worth our thoughts and prayers and search dogs. And it continues to appear that blonde and blue-eyed missing is a tragedy beyond compare. It continues.

Missing

All night long I dreamt lost things home –
the brown pony with the yarn mane,
the girl whose brother paces the street,
my father’s voice, the school ring lost at
the homecoming game – things gone
through time, misunderstanding, inflexibility,
or neglect.

These dreams were dramatic, redemptive
like purple crocus through snow,
or the hummingbird that tasted my cheek.

On waking I ventured to the front door,
sure the rabbits had found
the transplanted asters, ready to settle
back on earth, I was greeted
by the missing dog, gone a week,
who squeezed past the entry, curled to my leg,
kissed my foot in gratitude.