How the Dead Live On, Let Me Count the Ways

The 8-1-1 section of my studio
features several "Papa" mementos:
"Go Away I'm Reading"
is one of them!

Hello and Happy Poetry Friday! Be sure to visit Kiesha at Whispers from the Ridge for Roundup.

Today marks the two year anniversary of my father's death. One of the biggest surprises in my life is how my relationship with my father continues to evolve. So many things continue to make me feel close to him, and I love the ways he continues to "live."

Whether it is a friend telling me about her visit to Corinne Costin Gibson Memorial Public Library (Port St. Joe, FL) where she sat in my dad's rocker...

read more about
this special rocker here

... Or seeing my father's words in print as I did when Birmingham Arts Journal ran my father's story about his hometown of Port St. Joe, FL (a paper-mill town) titled "A Smell of Sulfur" (You can read it here, p. 12.)... these things help me feel connected to him.

Then there are things that slay me utterly and unexpectedly, like an email I received from an acquaintance of mine/friend of my father's:

"I must also share with you a special story about your Dad, which occurred after his death. C, my husband, was in the St. A’s emergency room, close to dying, and in and out of consciousness, when he suddenly said he was visiting with Ken Dykes. He could see him as well.  He was very comforted by that experience - as was I. 

Your Dad was a comfort to so many, at the Cancer Center and at St. Georges, and we treasured our friendship with him. I wanted you to know that he brought comfort to C, even after death. C himself died a few weeks after that emergency room stay."

Thinking of my father somewhere waiting for me -- and comforting others along the way -- just destroys me and uplifts me. I have found so much comfort in that.

I also received a letter I want to share here about my father's stories, which he wrote diligently, in the last years of his life. One of our last conversations was about how to structure the book we were going to create -- not surprisingly, his ideas for organization were different than mine-- and we'd hoped to get the book out for Christmas 2016. He died before that could happen. So I have been sharing his stories whenever I think of it. Here is one response:

Any writer would love reading these words: "Every story that he has written comes to life." That's the goal, isn't it?

And now I'd like to share a poem I discovered in HOME: Where Everyone is Welcome: Poems & Songs Inspired by American Immigrants by Deepak Chopra, Kabir Sehgal, Paul Avgerinos. I learned about this book on a Poetry Friday Roundup earlier this year (though I can't remember who posted about it... maybe Diane?) To whomever: THANK YOU!

Here is the poem:

Father
Inspired by Krishan Chopra

If awareness is existence
You have existed in me
From when I first became aware
And now
If awareness is life
Then you have been my life
Since I incarnated into experience
And now
From the stories you told
To the magnificent hero you were
I am
Because you were
And are
We exist in the awareness
Where I is thou
Thou is me
In every 
Everlasting
Now
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Thanks so much for reading!