My mother's youngest sister has just died, the last of that generation. We gathered to celebrate her life over the Easter weekend, spending three days together. It truly was a celebration. Her children, their partners and their children were there; I was the sole representative from the rest of the family. It was busy - we feasted, we told stories, we scattered her ashes from a peak overlooking the sea, I read a poem to everyone that she had written years ago, about her love for that part of the world.
She is one of the reasons I'm here, typing out poems when I'd rather be in bed - she had a book of poems she had written that none of her children, and probably not very many of her friends, had seen. One day I would like to be able to say that I shared my poems, launched them into the world to find their way, that they were read by others, that they found their voice.
Let me share this, then, which made me laugh, as I walked the mountain today.
True stories
We gathered to celebrate my aunt's life,
shared whiskey, laughter and tears.
The skeletons came out of their closets
and danced.
That's the peak we climbed, on a windy day, where we stood above the ocean and scattered her ashes.
This made my heart ache and smile at the same time. What a beautiful way to honour her. The image of the skeletons dancing so tender, so true. It feels like poetry walking hand in hand with grief, and still letting in laughter.
You are already launching your poems into the world, Karin. Every line you share lands somewhere quiet and necessary. I’m holding this one close tonight. Thank you for letting us walk that mountain with you.
—from one quiet poet to another