And One Day You'll Be Taken From Me

We sat, on a Christmas Eve, beside our tree
The one our firstborn had been so proud of, for all its green
The same our three-year old cried over, for its lack of leaves
Such is the way of things: it’s hard to make everyone happy

And after they were put to sleep,
Because we could not find the remote, there was no tv,
So instead we read that story from Capote,
'A Christmas Memory'

After our tears,
As you sat on my lap, you said
"And one day you'll be taken from me"

Our dog looked up at us, as if to mark the truth,
And we laughed and I said, "Yes…or you, from me"
And we cried, but not in despair, nor touching all of our tears,
As there was yet work to do—
Cookies and milk to be set out, and presents to be wrapped

Yet sitting there at the folding of the year,
On its nearly longest night, at the very end of things,
At the feast which is like gathering curtains, to let in light,
We sat, pre-mourning
Grieving what, inevitably, is to be

It did not seem indulgent or petulant but, rather good and right
A ritual, even, to crown the night, for
This is the way of all things, strangely:
Joys and sorrows kiss
And there is a holiness—and even bliss—
In letting go

Then, like a wave coming back to shore, new strength pulled us forward
To heave our breath
To feel for light and good, firm ground ahead

To know of death and dying, yes,
But to keep rising
To forsake despair
For the here and now and for the future, and how we’ll need our wits about us
For what is coming quickly:
First the spring,
And then the way of things

Above all, for our children—for three dear hearts who need to see
Strength married to supple awe, merged with quiet fearlessness
And faith that transcends dread, without denying weakness

With sure knowledge, deep within our bones, of second comings—
Of life for the weary and the dead
Of mysteries pursuing us through rain and fog,
A hound barking at our heels, to find us, and lead us home
To the very heart of God