I was thinking
that I would call you
around 4 o’clock
but you died between 1 and 2
that same
afternoon.
Sandra called me
with the news.
Both of us
unable to choke back the tears.
A light ocean
breeze came in through the screen
door & I
thought I heard windchimes, but
they were out on
the patio at 2319 Louella Ave in Venice
in 1971. Dad was
having a
smoke & you
were laughing at my Don Ho imitation.
I had just seen
you 3 weeks earlier,
a Christmas
visit. You were so frail, had been sick since Thanksgiving.
I told Pamela I
thought that this may be the last
Christmas with
you as we drove past Rincon the
sunlight
glittering on the water.
Talked to you on
the phone shortly thereafter,
your voice weak.
I told you to get better, because
I was going to
take you out dancing on your 87th birthday.
We were going to
“cut a rug”.
The hummingbird
visited the feeder in your backyard
but it was
empty. The house was full of family–
my brother &
my sisters, nieces & nephews,
your grandchildren
& great-grandchildren.
My heart fell
flat as I entered. It was the first time I ever
visited your
house without you there to greet me.
I kept my
sunglasses on in St. Mark’s Church, the way you
often did when
you went grocery shopping. With the shades, the
black suit
jacket & skinny black tie I thought I
looked like one
of the Reservoir Dogs but Alan said I looked
more like one of
the Blues Brothers.
They have new
stained glass windows in St. Mark’s.
The plaques
representing the stations of the cross are
also new I
think. Shadows danced across the altar all
during the
service.
You told me once
that you used to
talk to me when
you were carrying me in utero
before I was
born. So now I talk to you
after you’ve
died.
I talk to you
the way I did that aftrenoon,
out on the
patio, among the windchimes,
& we heard a
mockingbird singing in the avocado tree,
remember?
for Maxine Dorothy Opstedal, 1928-2015
