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

Sometimes, Temporarily

Sometimes, temporarily,
instead of
always or never

yeah,

sometimes, temporarily


-Jim DuBois
Aug 19, 2013

Sometimes you notice

Sometimes you notice
you live in a beautiful place



-Jim DuBois
Aug 13, 2013

Me at 43

Riding my bike
in the Meadows
near my home,
on the floodplain
of the Connecticut river
on a summer afternoon,

"I guess
I haven't
squeezed all the juice
out of life yet!"



-Jim DuBois
Aug 15, 2013

There was that time

There was that time
we decided
to camp
up on Bare mountain,
to sneak off the path
and set up camp,

But we didn't know
how to make
a good fire,
so the smoke
kept stinging
our eyes
all night long,

But we weren't sleeping
anyway
because the sound
of the chipmunks
scurrying around
scared us,
as did the thought
of bears.

I tried counting
backwards from 500
to get to sleep,
but kept forgetting
what number I was on
and it didn't work.

We maybe slept an hour
that night
and when I got up,
you were not around
so I went looking
up the trail
and there you were.

We had forgotten
to bring water
but we walked about
3 hours anyway,
drank at the park,
And walked 3 hours back.

All along
our hike,
we kept seeing
all these
different frogs.
They kept
magically appearing,
in the trail,
in the swamps and trees.

Then we settled down
for another horrible night,
But after an hour,
we had the good sense
to give up,
pack up in the dark
and hike down
the mountainside
in the pitch black night.

We slept so well
at my apartment
and were happier,
but I still miss
those magic frogs.


-Jim DuBois
August 14, 2013

At a Loss

47 degrees,
I guess I'll go appease
my restlessness

I'll go get some floss
since I'm at a loss
for what to do


-Jim DuBois
April 6, 2013

The Night

The night
is warm again

The world
looks inviting

This is probably
about me


Welcome home!


-Jim DuBois
April 12, 2013