On Death

Communion

—Mass—

In line for communion at a sixth century Mass.

At the head of the line, a mother and infant;

the child stares wide-eyed and amazed,

enchanted, over mother’s shoulder.

"What’s it all about," his eyes ask.

As if in answer, a hand and a blessing,

unseen from behind, are placed on his head.

His expression says, "I don’t know, but it’s good!"

Immediately I know that this has meaning;

this child in a strange new life,

bewildered yet blessed.

—Preparations—

The last full day of summer

in the last year

of the first decade

of the last quarter

of the twentieth century. [1]

The misting rain

follows a thunderstorm

of a single bolt. [2]

Thick green moss,

where once was bark,

breathes above a butterfly

struggling in the grass

to fly. [3]

We wandered and spent,

preparing for our lives [4]

like squirrels for the winter;

hustling the paycheck

like an acorn laden stem.

Tables and wedding rings,

light bulbs and studies.

A quest for wolf-traps

to place outside the kitchen door.

A struggle in the grass

to fly.

—Departure—

She died at night an unwitnessed departure.

Father woke and found a warm body,

the inhabitant gone. [5]

Here, 300 miles away, thoughts of green moss;

a grass bound butterfly trying to fly;

a five mile long dragon which flew west

through the hoop over St. Mary’s and past the Sower. [6]

Thoughts in advance of a poem.

Then Sleep.

—The Walk—

The phone call.

Some tears.

Some plans.

Some reassurances.

Then the walk.

Bird song

and cricket call

on a cool and cloudy morning.

I visit the church of their wedding altar [7]

and walk past their first apartment. [8]

Quiet.

Soothing.

Quite unexpectedly

this pilgrimage through her past

becomes a walk through my past.

Sensations and feelings

from years long gone

flood in upon me.

There can be no doubt:

I am visited.

By her,

by God,

by my own yearnings . . .

I cannot know,

but I am visited.

I assume it is her

and show her my world.

If it was my mother,

she now knows so much

I could never have told her.

The comfort that was with me

when they had to leave me

to pursue my own life.

What I discovered on the stage [9]

and in the arts.

What it was like for me

to live in the monastery. [10]

How wonder-filled I find

muddy puddles on cloudy days

surrounded by green bushes,

song trees and grasses.

Does she know?

Was she there?

I know only this:

whatever I needed to trigger an experience,

it appeared at a thought.

When I wanted to show

my joy at the sphinx moth

the first of the season appeared.

"Thrush," I said,

and six flew up from the bushes.

And

whenever I looked up,

on this six hour tour,

there was,

always,

a butterfly . . . flying!

above

or before me. [11]

By Mark Fairchild, © 1985, Mark Fairchild, Lincoln, Nebraska,, USA

Published by St. Mark's on the Campus Episcopal Church, in Communion, Spring 1994

~ ~ ~

Notes:

→ On the day my mother died, I walked around downtown Lincoln, looking at the various apartments where she had lived. Afterwards I sat down at DaVInci's Pizza (←  location in 1985) and wrote this.

→ [1]

 “In line for communion at a sixth century Mass.”: Fr. Don Hanway liked to periodically perform an historic liturgy since St. Mark's was a campus ministry, and he felt students should be exposed to the history.

→ [2] 

“The last full day of summer/in the last year/of the first decade/of the last quarter/of the twentieth century.”: September 22, 1985.

→ [3]

 “Thick green moss,/where once was bark,\breathes above a butterfly\struggling in the grass\to fly.” I did see this the night before as I walked along 13th street to the 7/11 to get my nightly Dr. Pepper. It had rained, and this butterfly must have been wetted by the rain.

→ [4]

 “We wandered and spent,/preparing for our lives “: Sarah and I had spent much of the previous few weeks looking through thrift stores for thinks to help furnish our first apartment together.a

→ [6]

 “a five mile long dragon which flew west/through the hoop over St. Mary’s and past the Sower.”: A dragon is what I, and eventually Sarah, called a flock of birds, usually Starlings. This one was condensing from trees around town as they flew to the fields to feed on crop seeds, then back again at night to roost. This one went from east to west, horizon to horizon, over St. Mary's, where I stood as I watched it, and past the Capitol Building.

→  [7]

 “I visit the church of their wedding altar”: St. Paul's United Methodist Church at 12th & M streets in downtown Lincoln.

→  [8]

 “and walk past their first apartment.”: on the second floor of 226 North 12th Street.

→  [9] 

“What I discovered on the stage”: at the Temple Building 1 ½ blocks north of their apartment, and in Free Theatre, elsewhere on campus (primarily in the Wesley House).

→  [10]

 “to live in the monastery.”: in Taizé, France.

→  [11]

 “there was,/always,/a butterfly/. . . flying!/above/or before me”: This was, I swear, absolutely true . . . as is everything in this poem!