Grief does not discriminate. It can be seen in the face of angry fathers who carry young sons just killed in senseless wars. It can be seen in those who feel dead when abandoned or abused. And sometimes it can take the form of deep empathy felt by an aging stranger who happens upon a small town cemetery and imagines the intense pain felt by this family, so long ago.
© 2012 Michael Fiveson
Attached to my screen window…..peering into my home….reporting back to the mother ship….help me! help me! Aghhhhhghhh!!!
© 2012 Michael Fiveson
his father told him
not to worry
and to meet him
everyday
after dinner
by the fence
that separated
where the boys lived
and the men lived
and so he did
everyday
and the minutes
they had together
were all that was left
his mother
and sister
were somewhere else
in that awful place
where people screamed
and disappeared
and there was very little food
and it was cold
and he had to pretend
to be older
like his father told him
because younger boys
are taken somewhere
and never return
he did not know why
they were taken from their home
so many
such a long trip
filth
agony
sickness
pain
despair
death
so each day
he went to that fence
for many months
as his father grew thinner
and his mother
and sister
were somewhere else
I love you, said father
be strong
be brave
work hard
come tomorrow
my son
and so he did
except his father
was not there
that day
or the next day
or any other day
again
and all that he had
was all gone
in that awful place
called Auschwitz
© 2012 Michael Fiveson
For our WWll veterans:
called to service
from our great cities
and tiny towns
farmers, carpenters, fathers, and fishermen
at a time, when the risk of dying
held great purpose
and was so clearly defined
off to save the world
and our way of life
these men, boys mostly
walked for months
crawled through unspeakable horror
died in a million awful ways
leaving behind
wives
children
girlfriends
comfort
to march off
and save the world
so few left
they are all very old now
these heroes
they will tell you
they did nothing special
as they saved the world
many returned
limbless
shaken
crippled
yet prideful
respected
and loved
if you meet one
thank him
tell him you know
what he did
and who he is
tell him
he saved the world
© 2012 Michael Fiveson
It was a three minute conversation on a stairwell that turned me inside out and brought tears to my eyes.
We were both volunteers at a local elementary school and I stepped out of my room to stretch my back as he was approaching. He was 75 years old, but looked younger and in the space of 30 seconds he told me that his wife of 53 years had just died and then he added “I didn’t know what I had”, and began to cry softly.
Married 41 years myself, I felt immediate compassion for this gentleman who told me that she had developed ALS and died “without dignity.” He relayed how he would carry her to the bathroom and even told me that he found himself wishing she would die. Racked with a combination of guilt, loss, and grief, he continued to say “I didn’t know what I had.”
I touched his shoulder and told him it is clear to me how much he loved her, and that she would live on in his heart and mind. He just shook his head and cried, and I knew that his grief was in a deep place I could not massage, and that only time would soften the loss. I also knew that this was a peek at the loss many of us will feel when the love of our life suffers and dies. Unavoidable, this kind of grief waits in the shadows to clutch our hearts and stab our minds.
What I did not have the time to tell him is that I knew that he only wanted her suffering to end, that no one holds him accountable for that, and that the best of us struggle to know what it is we have, while we are having it. There is no doubt that he loved her deeply, and cared for her in sickness in a way most men could not.
Grab the moment, and squeeze it like it might be your last. Work hard at knowing what you have, and prepare for a loss that will leave you crying to a stranger during a three minute conversation in a stairwell.
I am the circus elephant
hollow, empty, angry, deranged
taken from all that was important to me
my heart was broken
my soul was bled
born to exist as part of a family
proud as a member, loved and alive
my days were joyful
I had children who I loved so much
and they, with my brothers and sisters
were my whole life
my reason to exist
I am now alone
tortured daily
to perform for you
and I do
dead, without purpose
my existence is empty
like my soul
and all my days
endless and dark
are spent hoping
that some day
somewhere
perhaps when my tormentors
are at ease
I will show you my anger
my twisted and broken heart
will know only rage
as I run from this life
to certain death
crushing as many of you as I can
running in any direction
devoid of all hope
not even remembering the joy of play
or the love I once knew
I will die screaming
when you kill me
and set me free
© 2011 Michael Fiveson
I will confess that only now, this late in life, am I reading Anne Frank’s diary.
With just 20 pages left, and her demise imminent, I am reluctant to finish it, as I know how I am going to react, and I am already grieving. During the course of this read I have fallen completely in love with this brave and enchanting girl who was so far beyond her years. Still, she had a child’s innocence while teetering between remarkable insight, bravery, fear, and a young girl’s fantasy.
I find that as I get older certain things punch me right in the heart, and my soul bleeds openly. Our world is filled with so much beauty which runs concurrently with a certain degree of horror and unimaginable suffering. This dichotomy spins my head and leaves me uncertain of everything outside of my own small family.
Now I am off to say goodbye to Anne and hurt just a little bit more.
Hard to let this day pass without expressing my continuing admiration for those who answered the call after Pearl Harbor.
As a Navy vet myself, 1968-1972, I have grown to understand the incredible bravery and resolve that went into fighting that war and saving the world from a fate unimaginable.
The heroes that braved those years fighting for a cause so just, experienced conditions that were beyond comprehension. My respect knows no bounds. If you see any person in uniform, thank them. If you meet a WWll veteran, give them a hug. They are vanishing quickly.
I will tell you at the outset that while I don’t really like Christmas, I have enjoyed a few good ones in my time. My time is defined from age 30 forward, after the birth of my only child. There is reward and pleasure in giving, and to have made him happy by spoiling him was indeed my pleasure.
Perhaps being Jewish has something to do with my lack of joy at Christmas. After all, by definition the season lacks any spiritual relevance for me. But it is more than that. We make a big deal about feeding hungry people on Thanksgiving, and become more generous at Christmas. What about the rest of the year? Can’t we find the same moral or spiritual imperative to provide and comfort when it isn’t a holiday? There is also a political objection for me. In particular, it feels like it is about marketing and merchandizing, so companies can meet their bottom line. Always onward and upward with corporate America, and what an opportunity Christmas provides. All that aside, I did grow up a very bad Jew and Christmas presents were part of my upbringing.
I remember the grand total of one Christmas from my youth, and it will stay with me forever. When I was eight years old and living in a Brooklyn slum called Brownsville, my older brother and I were invited to spend Christmas with my father and his second wife, Pat. They lived on Long Island in a nice big home and not only would I get to escape the rat’s nest that was home, but there was also the promise of a meaningful present or two.
I didn’t really know much about Pat and think I had only been around her a few times. She had one son who was about my age but I didn’t know him either. Most of that weekend is a complete blur, but as Christmas Eve unfolded it would rock my world and scare me half to death.
At what point in the evening Pat started drinking is an unknown, but when we said good night, the door to our room remained open a crack and my brother and I could both see into the hallway and I caught a peek at the red bicycle that was being wheeled into the living room and put next to the tree. My heart raced at the prospect of that bike being for me as it would have been the greatest gift I ever received and was exactly what I was hoping for. I do know that I had great difficulty falling asleep and I was beside myself with anticipation and glee. Please God, let that bike be for me. Please God; I’ll be a good boy for the rest of my life. Please. Please. Please.
My brother and I were awakened to the sound of yelling. Loud yelling. Screaming. Through the slightly cracked door we could hear all of it, and see part of it. I remember Pat being incoherent, and reaching for the phone. I watched as my father grabbed it out of her hand and started hitting her with it. Hitting her hard enough to crack her skull and have blood flying everywhere. I was curled up into a protective ball hoping it was a dream, but it was real. When and how it ended, I do not recall. I don’t know if our father came into the room and told us it was ok. He may well have. He might not have.
Somehow, the next morning arrived and presents were opened. I have no idea what kind of gifts I might have received, but I can tell you the red bike was for Pat’s son. I was now broken hearted in addition to being exhausted and terrified. I have a faint recollection of that trip ending abruptly right after the gifts were opened. Remarkably, getting back to the decaying streets of Brownsville was ok. My mother’s indifference and ineptitude were better than the horror I witnessed that Christmas.
That marriage did not last long. Pat, as it turns out, was a significant alcoholic and my father remained challenged emotionally for all his days. My brother tells me he can remember the smell of all that blood.
I have owned many bikes since then; my current one weighs 650 pounds and can go as fast as I want it to. But never fast enough to lose the memory of that bloody Christmas.
explain to me
you smilers
and knowers
of truth
you who have mastered
right and wrong
explain to me
the children
crying at night
beyond comfort
they would suck their thumbs
if they had any
separated from their parents
who blew up
before their eyes
mother’s last look
father’s last touch
in pieces
while the children
lived
wishing they had died
blind, limbless, hopeless
beyond repair
explain to me
you masters of war
decision makers
widow makers
how you sleep at night
content
fat
rich
bastards
those children
would claw your eyes out
rip your guts out
claim your soul
if you had one
