By: Rev. Kim Wildszewski, mother of Malcolm (4/2/2018 – 5/12/2020)

Last week, when the sky looked like a toddler had

smeared his fingers across wet, pink, cotton candy,

and the geese were so loud, so urgent, so many,

and I heard you singing in the back seat some sweet,

joyful mash up of your Hello song and Twinkle Twinkle

and, god only knows what else, I couldn’t bear it.

I could not bear one more beautiful thing including you.

The night he died we demanded you. Commanded you

from the sky, from the stars, from a bed of millennia-made

stardust within which you slept. Rightful rest after lifetimes

already lived. Do not resent us for calling you back.

Do not resent us for our lethargy, our exhausting and

exhausted resiliency, our wishes for something easier,

something so unlike you. 

We could not know then how death would draw our eyes

to the veins in leaves, make us feel the textures of wind,

pace our movements to the metronome of each day.

We could not know how full of life you’d be. 

How can we bear it? 

All this beauty. Your gorgeous and gregarious life.

We would have never chosen this awe-ful universe,

this vermillion leaf with its white soft veins and venules,

this deep pink sky, your sweet singing. But here you are,

sweet salvation. And here are the geese again,

showing us how to move from one comfort to another.

Look how they take turns, knowing the way.