Today, my Great Uncle Charles died. I really wish he could have stayed on...wish they all could.
He was a really good guy.
And now, we all draw near that old screened porch -which will never be the same again- to say fare-the-well...for now...until we meet again.
We share our grief, our loss. We recite the stories and share memories rehearsed a thousand times before. This time they are tributes.
I am listening to the stories as if I've never heard them before.
I am trying to remember them well.
For those who know all the best stories keep up and leaving the room.
DYING WITH AMISH UNCLES
Julia Kasdorf
The ground was frozen so hard
his sons used a jackhammer to pry
open a grave in the rocky field
where Grossdaadi's wife and daughter
lay under the streaked stones
that tell only last names:
Yoder, Zook, Yoder
Amish uncles, Grossdaadi's sons,
shoveled earth on the box;
stones clattered on wood then quieted
while we sang hymns to the wind.
Bending over the hole,
Uncle Kore wouldn't wipe
his dripping nose and chin.
Ten years later when we gather
for July ham and moon pies,
the uncles stand to sing
Grossdaadi's favorite hymns.
At " Gott ist die Liebe,"
they almost laugh
with tears running
into their beards;
Abe and Mose and Ben
do not wipe them.
Their voices come deep as graves
and unashamed of shirtsleeves
or suspenders. Seeing them cry
that brave, I think the uncles
mustn't die, that they'll stay
with those of us who must,
being so much better than we are
at weathering death.
As I shared this poem with family tonight, I thought to look up the hymn mentioned in the poem. It led to an interesting documentary on life as a Hutterite and footage of a ninety year old granny singing old hymns - many of which we recognized. For a brief moment, an impromptu sing-a-long occurred--this borrowed granny, my parents and me.
I'll leave you to link hop at your leisure, but here is the poem's hymn for your convenience:
