A Majestic Demise

My pace is slower now,
leaving me free to notice
white elephant ear fungi
sprouting overnight
on the trunk of my dying
maple tree, the one that
failed to penetrate hidden rock
and establish its taproot.

First its bark grew green-gray
with lichen. Branches,
brittle with thirst, broke off
with abandon. And leaves aged
too early, when they even
appeared at all. Woodpeckers

burrowed a nest for three

into drying pith.

Gusts of wind bode ill for
the giant's fate. Its hulking
mass threatens those once it
sheltered. Soon its
comforting bower will yield
to axe and saw; its
remains to exist in memory
alone.

I will notice its absence
as I did its slow decline,
inexorable fall from
stately splendor to dangerous
decrepitude.

My maple's effort to thrive lays
shallow within grass,
roots bulging and bursting
through as they seek to
slake the deep arboreal
thirst. Home to wasps and
worms, those stout wanderings
failed in their quest.
Not rootless yet nearly as
unstable, glorious maple
now ceases its search
for sustenance.

Now it sustains other, more
alien life. Fungi of many hues
flourish everywhere;
sickly yellow flaps under bark
and coal black globules
where root and earth meet.
Deep orange crust
barricades the open cleft
of this vulnerable majesty
while tiny grey ledges form
climbing walls for ants.

Squirrels chase tails up and back,

thick boughs their resting

place and launching pad onto

wires and mischief. The end rushes

toward us.

Those elephant ears
are not like Dumbo's. They
herald a permanent grounding,
the end of days. No more
soaring above people,
cars, streetlights and homes.

The pace quickens. Still
I am in no hurry
to say goodbye.

Missing David

My twin sister's first child, David, died June 29, 2005.
A brain tumor grew and grew and grew and eventually
snuffed out his life.
He was 6 years, 1 month, two weeks old.
I found him.

His mom tucked David in, kissed him and told him
she was the luckiest mommy in the world to have him as her son.
And she told him he could go.

I wanted to be there sooner.
I knew. Something would happen that day.
When I saw my sister laughing on the telephone, I thought it was OK.
Nothing bad happened.

I went upstairs to say goodnight,
knelt down by his bed and kissed him, saying
"Good night, sweet David."
His eyes were half open.
I called his name a little louder, touched his shoulder, gently shook him, watching for him to wake up, to know that I was there.
He'd asked for me all day and evening.
I so hope he knew I’d come home.
His mommy says he knew I was and it was finally safe to go.

I can't sleep tonight for missing him,
for grief.
I opened a drawer and saw his little sweatpants.
I kept them because I need a piece of him with me.
He'll always be that size.
He'll never grow any bigger. Never.

It's beyond words.
I miss him so much.
I am engulfed by grief.
I'm free to cry, and I do.

I go to the cemetery and just cry so deeply
sitting on that beautiful bench,
looking at the footstone words:
"David Leland Coble, Best Boy in the World."

The worst thing
is that I don't feel entitled to this grief.
I'm just his aunt.
But that's not how I feel.
He was my boy. I was his "almost mom."
He called me Mommy a lot because
I look so much like his mommy and I love him like a mommy.
Like a mommy, I would have done anything to protect and save him.

I have been blessed to feel I would give my life to save his.
The futility of that wish, that desire is deadly.
I feel myself go numb.

I find it so hard to accept that David is really not coming back.
I know it, I see the grave,
I hear the absent footsteps and silenced voice,
I feel the empty arms and loadless back.