I’m putting chairs away

I’m putting chairs away
in the boathouse
You’re giving away his clothes

I’m putting swings away
in the garage
You’re selling his car

Tomorrow, we move back
form the lake
Yesterday, you brought
his urn
down to Northampton


-Jim DuBois
Sept 18, 2010

just over 3 years since you died

The other day,
we were
up at the lake house,
putting things away
for the season,
packing up
the odds and ends,
reviewing memories,
winding down.

It's been
just over 3 years
since you died
and I
have a few more things
to tell about,
to record and remember,
to help me
wrap things up.

I remember seeing you,
orange skinned
from liver failure,
entering the front door,
a slightly fatigued look
on your face,
and at that moment,
I had no idea
it would be
the last time
I saw you,
or that a few months
later
I'd move into the basement
of that house
for three weeks
to be close
to your son
and widow.

I made a lot
of phone calls,
did a lot of coordinating
support for your wife,
listened,
and listened
and listened,
and cried
and cried
and cried.

I arranged visits,
I kept some people
at bay,
I got people to
come up and play,
in the midst of it all,
play with me and Josh.

I found out how far
I could go,
how much I could take,
what I could do.

I went over that line
a few times
and I want to
tell about them
because it's good
to know about
your limits
and mostly people
only hear that in
a vague way
and mostly people
haven't been
out there themselves.

The first time,
I offered
to make some
phone calls
to family and friends
who might want to
say something
at the funeral,
and these were
probably the hardest
conversations I have
ever had.
I got off the phone
and burst into tears.

The next time
I remember,
a call came in
from a friend
of your wife's
and I took it.
More bad news:
the friend's husband
had died, only a few days
after you.
I had to take
your widow out to the porch
and give her that news,
and it broke my spirit
for a little bit
and I rushed out
and kayaked hard
for a while.

I told my dad,
who I never tell anything,
that that fall
was the most unhappy
time of my entire life.

I also tell people
that it was good
to find out
that I could put
my values
into action
and wasn't just talking
about integrity and courage.

Ever since those hard times
I've known myself
much more clearly.


-Jim DuBois
Sept 4, 2013

I write these things down

I write
these things down,
because someone
should do it,
and I decided
it would be me.

I don't think
it needs to be
too clever,
or too dramatic.

It mainly
just needs doing.


-Jim DuBois
March 31, 2013

Rocket Boy

We must have told you
that Daddy was far away
after he died,
or something like that,
because you got it
in your head
that he was out on Jupiter
in outer space, or at a star,
and we let it stand at that,
because often there was
no more reasonable way
to say it.

Lately you've loved to watch
the launch of Apollo 11
on youtube,
and listen to the song
"Rocket-Man"
by Elton John,
and I think
as I sit there with you
that you are on
a kind of a lonely quest
to find your father,
and I am awed
by the deep hope
you have
that maybe it's possible.

It is serious
and important for you,
at four and a half,
to be on this quest,
and it is important
for me to set down a reminder,
a note to your future self,
saying that even though
a quest might take you
across the universe,
it always ends up
being about coming to terms
with what is inside of you.


-Jim DuBois
Dec 10, 2011



Bonus Videos! Watch them separately, or do an experiment and run them both at the same time.

Start this first:


Start this after a couple of minutes or so:

Our Ideas About Death

I.

Right after
your father died
you used to talk to me
in the middle of the night
about your ideas
about death,
how maybe you would
dig a hole in the ground
and find Daddy
or how it scared you
that they might
put you and Mama
in different holes in the ground
when you died,
and you would be
very lonely then,
or how you wanted
to die together with Mama
on the same day,
because you always wanted
to be with her,
and it was sweet
and horrible
all together for me.

I had to be
an adult
and reassure you
that you and Mama
would live a long time,
but that it
was still sad
that Daddy died.

I remember you saying to me,
"I never thought
you would die, Jim,"
and it was chilling
to think of you
imagining my death,
to see you face death
so early.

I also remember
after one of these conversations
at the lake house,
you getting up
and saying,
"Let's never die!"
and jumping around eagerly
on the bed,
and I thought
that was
a damn fine response.



II.

Even though I reassured you
about death, and
was happy to help,
I don't really understand it
or like it myself.

I think of it as
a cruel robbery
that breaks hearts
that changes lives' courses
that makes days grimmer,
and I would undo it,
I would stop it,
if I could.

I don't understand
why we are here,
or why we die
-- it does seem cruel --
but despite that,
the chance to meet you
and love you
was worth it.


-Jim DuBois
Nov 30, 2011

After the Funeral

After the funeral,
there was nothing to say
which was not awkward,
nothing to say
which did not seem cliche,
but I kept trying anyway.

I talked to the father
of the deceased man.
I said things like
"It's very sad."
We didn't look at each other
and he said something like,
"I feel terrible,
especially for my grandson,"
and looked up at the trees
and shed some tears.
A half minute later,
he said something like,
"but we've got to get on with life,
and try to help the people
left behind."

I figured out that that moment
between us, however awkward,
however brief,
was important
because it was about caring,
and that what I said
didn't matter as much
as that I cared.

So, when the parents
of the deceased were leaving,
I went up to the mother,
and took her hand
and looked her in the eye
and said as warmly
as I have probably ever
said anything,
"take care."


-Jim DuBois
July 28, 2011

Uncle Fred

After the funeral
I met uncle Fred,
a talkative, friendly,
older Jewish man.

On his way out,
he said to me,
"So, you'll be up here
taking care of Rachel,
since you live nearby, right?"

I flushed, not being used to
being given direct commands,
but said, "yes, absolutely."

I thought that since he didn't know me,
and couldn't be there himself,
he was making sure the family
was taken care of,
letting me know
the importance of that.

I told this story
to his daughter,
who I met months later,
and said how I was impressed
and appreciated his directness.

She said,
"Uncle Fred's not usually
so direct,
but he is
an excellent judge of character."



-Jim DuBois
July 22, 2011

To The Boats!

To the boats!
One of our tribe has died.
Paddle hard across the treacherous waves
until the light returns.

One of our tribe has died.
Race the stormclouds!
until the light returns
and the water settles.

Paddle hard across the treacherous waves.
To the water!
To the boats!
We must move fast now.

To the boats!
Until the light returns.


-Jim DuBois
Sept 7 - 15, 2010

Two Old Men After a Funeral

1.

Two old men,
patriarchs of their families,
leaning against the porch rail
after a funeral
- they thank me
for all the work
I have done
to take care of
their daughter and grandson.

I am caught off-guard
by my emotions.

I search for a reply,
then say,
"I felt it was important."

One of them replies,
"It was...
  it is."

And I carry on.



2.

Two old men
after a funeral
remind me
that to care and to love
are important.

Two old men
after a funeral
pass down
ancient primate wisdom
and responsibilities.



-Jim DuBois
September 8, 2010

Promises

Before you died,
we knew you were sick
for a long time
and I always imagined
being there
for your final moments
and promising you
that I
would always
be there for your son.

(But) when your end came
you were unconscious
and in a different state
and it turns out
that those imagined moments
were disguised promises
to myself.


-Jim
Sep 15, 2010

A Certain Peace

The first time I remember
    walking down route 9
    by St. John's church
    in Northampton,

I had given up hope
    and was carrying
    a rolled up blanket
    and looking for a place
    to sleep.

I had given up hope
    of finding people
    of finding my way
    of finding a home,

but there was a certain peace
    that settled over me
    in that moment
    (maybe because
    I had stopped trying)
    and then Julian pulled up
    on the street
    (in Steve's british car
    he was borrowing without asking)
    and took me to stay
    at the Cummington Community
    for the Arts
    for a few days.

I remember wandering around
    up there,
    going into the weird little cabins
    (which I later learned were private),
    sitting in a field
    playing flute
    which echoed back nicely
    from the hills
    and imagining
    I was the long lost son
    of a woman I imagined
    lived in the little old house
    nearby.

I remember eating a lot of carrots
    and seeing Lauren's
    circular art cabin,
    with the hand-made walk,
    nestled in the edge
    of the woods.


Now it is nearly twenty years later
    and I am sitting on State street
    on the low stone wall
    by Edwards church
    and I am trying
    not to try
    and to give up hopes
    I have of other people,

and even though
    I've had insomnia recently
    and my best friend's husband
    died three months ago
    and we (including her three
    and a half year old son)
    haven't found our bearings yet,
    a certain peace
    has settled over me again
    and I am using it
    to relax,
        to remember,
            and to write.



-Jim DuBois
Nov 13, 2010