I wonder how old I was when the idea first reached me that our departed loved ones might still be near and looking on. I don’t remember having thought of it myself, or it ever being suggested by my parents. I might have read it somewhere. I did a lot of reading in my youth. I find the idea poetically appealing, but I’ve never thought of it as either definitely true or definitely false. If they’re able, and if they care to watch and listen, or simply can’t help themselves, they’re welcome to do so, and there’s certainly nothing I can do to prevent them, other than perhaps taking my own life. If they’re unable, or aren’t interested, or otherwise busy, bored, or preoccupied, that’s fine too. I assume nothing. Let them be spirit. Let them be memory. Let them be bones and dust. Let them be anything, and everything, let them be something else. I love them just the same, which probably means I love myself.
These thoughts came to me early this morning when I was washing dishes and singing a medley of old familiar tunes, and when the question suddenly arose, What if, when we sing an old song, it summons its maker, or makers? In some cases, it would keep he, she, or them busier than God. And what of a traditional song? Wouldn’t it summon everyone? Song as summons. I dried the dishes, too.
March 30, 2020. Afternoon.
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Categories: Everything and Nothing, New Poems & Pieces
Tags: Death, Diaries, God, Journals, Memory, Music, My Father, My Mother, Poetry, Reading, Singing, Spirits, Washing Dishes
William Michaelian 