A week ago, I gathered with my family at my hometown church of St. Mary’s in East Eden, N.Y. for the funeral of my beautiful big sister, Jennifer (52). The 300+ people who couldn’t all fit inside the church were a testimony to what a generous and loving person she was. The attendees wore pink in solidarity with all breast cancer patients and in commemoration of the Go Pink For Jen campaign that her god daughter started when she was first diagnosed in 2016. Here is the poem I read at the conclusion of the Mass.
I want to believe what I don’t believe
that one day soon you’ll go on a never-ending creek walk
canopy-dappled on smooth slate
under mirrored rivulets over
catfish, minnows, and newts
where trilliums line the banks
where the flies don’t bite
and the occasional duck starts
a finch, a thrush to chirp
to a rippled drum beat I want to believe
that when we go, the memory of us will breathe
for a series of seasons
until the photo albums get tossed
faded as names are lost
like leaves to the new buds—
the fresh I want to believe
that our soul leaves us and enters a new body
to try again at perfection—
at reconciliation
that the saints are here
that Mary will cradle you like her son off the cross
the sting of the piercings lessening
then,
in her competent hands
for the saints intervene on our behalf—
that’s our good luck
Grandma’s face in a daisy
and the puddle seeping into my sock
another reminder I want to believe
that Grandma is a saint
that when we go, we get to look down to the Earth and watch everyone we love carry on
that here on Earth, we pay for our sins
and there is no retribution
in the afterlife
that what we do here makes a difference
somewhere in a beyond
a beyond the lives
of the babies we sat, the lives
they toddled into
UNICEF boxes of
trick-or-treat dimes I want to believe what I don’t believe
that good deeds matter
that there is an afterlife
that you will be with Grandma and Uncle Danny again
because you loved them more than most
but all the others too
and Sunshine and Frisky and Muffin and Chrissy
and the zebra finches that shared our room
at Grandma’s house, named Benson and Kraus
by somebody else—uncaged now—free
I want to believe what I don’t believe
that Heaven is the right here—the now—if only we would see it, but also
that your soul goes to Heaven perfect
and your body keeps falling
apart on Earth, back to Earth,
it falls back to Earth—
a seed that sips rain
that Heaven will watch the Earth burn
someday—by asteroid, volcano
or self-immolation— I want to believe
that Heaven will sob a rain
to cool the charring continents
a rain that starts
it all over again
that you’ll return to me
in the morning, a Pegasus,
nuzzle me awake with your muzzle
we’ll fly in the troposphere
your dappled grey sparkling
me hanging on terrified—no saddle, no reigns
—as we visit castles made of spun sugar
and ice, and Tourmaline caves
with Topaz stalagmites
I want to believe what I don’t believe
that you’ll understand the universe
all at once, understand all the things
we never thought about—
particle physics, circadian rhythm, general relativity—
and you’ll see us, the unfortunate
left-behinds, struggling
in ignorance and you’ll whisper
the answers into our scorched ears I want to believe
that heaven is down on Earth
—here—where the light shaft
shoots through a downpour,
the rainbow, the charcoal sketched
rain cloud, the snowbell piercing ice
to make way for the grape hyacinth,
the snowflake, the whiteout
that in the hours we spent on our bellies
in the sun on the front lawn
when we were six and seven
searching for four leaves
among the clover blooms, how
we weren’t looking for luck,
but the Heaven we always believed in.
~ Cathy Wittmeyer 2023