Wrote this poem after my Granny died at age 99, in Nanaimo, on Vancouver Island, close to where she was born.
Velma Joyce McKeachie (Nee Morley)
b. Dec. 14, 1923
d. Feb. 8, 2023
As you can see in the photo, Granny had a lot of character and charm, always good for a laugh. Even the dogs knew it!
Gravity
When someone dies,
the family planets realign.
The solar system restructures itself
around the vacuum
where once shone
the one now gone.
Gravity changes.
The moon's pull
on the tide of tears
is stronger, full.
The roles we play jump orbit,
expand.
Understanding of our place in the system
deepens.
The value of the one now gone,
appreciated, glorified as an angel,
praises sung.
It takes effort to relieve
the pressure of grief.
Spinning in messy, weepy orbit,
we pass each other and, maybe,
forget to look.
The other planets keep us in orbit.
Relationships show us the path
we must follow around the sun
that is uniquely our own yet
giving room for the other.
These magnetic forces which created us
now push us out past where we know
who to be.
With the death of a planet, a loved one,
all of us expand into their space -
photons getting further
away from each other -
until we dissolve into the void with them and the traces of
our own planetary trajectory are
spread all over,
are wept over
by every moon and sun and star.