hummingwolf (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hummingwolf) wrote2006-11-27 03:02 pm
hummingwolf) wrote2006-11-27 03:02 pm
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The tao that can fit their nurture according to general sewing instructions (picture 2b)
Aside from the fact that HAL got an old Sade song running through my head, this is the kind of poem I'd like to talk about in some detail. But I also have Stuff To Do if I can find the energy, plus the return of an annoyingly frequent cough, so I'm not really going to say much of anything.
How to bury Dad caused a bit of discussion in the family. My brothers and I were all pretty much agreed: the body was like clothing, not something to fuss too much over once the wearer wore it out. Even if Goodwill accepted donations of skin, his wasn't something anyone would want to find in a thrift store--too dry (they don't have much in the way of oil glands on his side of the family), too recently infected, too old. No, as soul-clothing goes, his body wasn't worth very much anymore.
The doctors agreed that none of his organs were good for donating. Again, too much damage, from the infection that killed him and from his body's way of dealing with the aftereffects. But my father and I had had a discussion once about having our bodies donated so med students could do educational autopsies, so I mentioned that in the hospital meeting. The doctors & my brothers agreed that donating the body to the state anatomy board was a good idea--someone would at least get some benefit from the body, and that someone would not be a funeral director trying to sell us some hideously expensive coffin.
One of my father's relatives had objections, for some reason. He thought my brothers & I needed to have a discussion with a clergyperson first. We informed him that we had made our decision, based upon what we knew of Dad's wishes as well as what we considered appropriate, and were not going to change our minds. He acknowledged that we did a good job making these decisions, even if they weren't the choices he would have made, and said he hoped his own family would do as well in keeping his ideals in mind if and when the time came.
Memorial service held while the body was en route to somewhere-or-other. We got the ashes back a few months later. Urn delivered by the U.S. Postal Service. Naturally, this prompted us to make many jokes about the Dead Letter Office.
Nobody's wearing any enigmatic clothes made out of that old hide. But maybe there's someone traveling their path in L.A., Chicago, or Athens, GA who's benefited from having a doctor who learned some anatomy dissecting Dad's remains.
Civilized, crying: how to bury him,
i said to myself softly, so no one else,
none may wear masks or enigmatic clothes,
drawn by the same upon thanksgiving day.
over these things as we tacked from coast to coast, l.a. To chicago, western male.
across the path back, how rough it was
no, nothing will ever wear.
i'll write a letter,
i swear it's just between us,
and out; a pause, a shining hour,
have you had been schooled. The
union of the street.
on the runway at athens, georgia.
How to bury Dad caused a bit of discussion in the family. My brothers and I were all pretty much agreed: the body was like clothing, not something to fuss too much over once the wearer wore it out. Even if Goodwill accepted donations of skin, his wasn't something anyone would want to find in a thrift store--too dry (they don't have much in the way of oil glands on his side of the family), too recently infected, too old. No, as soul-clothing goes, his body wasn't worth very much anymore.
The doctors agreed that none of his organs were good for donating. Again, too much damage, from the infection that killed him and from his body's way of dealing with the aftereffects. But my father and I had had a discussion once about having our bodies donated so med students could do educational autopsies, so I mentioned that in the hospital meeting. The doctors & my brothers agreed that donating the body to the state anatomy board was a good idea--someone would at least get some benefit from the body, and that someone would not be a funeral director trying to sell us some hideously expensive coffin.
One of my father's relatives had objections, for some reason. He thought my brothers & I needed to have a discussion with a clergyperson first. We informed him that we had made our decision, based upon what we knew of Dad's wishes as well as what we considered appropriate, and were not going to change our minds. He acknowledged that we did a good job making these decisions, even if they weren't the choices he would have made, and said he hoped his own family would do as well in keeping his ideals in mind if and when the time came.
Memorial service held while the body was en route to somewhere-or-other. We got the ashes back a few months later. Urn delivered by the U.S. Postal Service. Naturally, this prompted us to make many jokes about the Dead Letter Office.
Nobody's wearing any enigmatic clothes made out of that old hide. But maybe there's someone traveling their path in L.A., Chicago, or Athens, GA who's benefited from having a doctor who learned some anatomy dissecting Dad's remains.
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