Obituary for the Obituaries

Obituary for the Obituaries

I used to collect obituaries of famous people,
people of influence, of culture, writers, artists, poets,
principled people, at least on paper, in the Times,
Wall St. Journal, or even, on occasion, in not-so-well known
newspapers I worked for, small papers about which , if they died,
there would be little said or written, perhaps a fitting epitaph,
in itself, like a pebble in a landslide.

I used to collect obituaries of famous people
but now I am throwing them out, one by one, as I come across them
in the old files we go through from time to time, thinning,
winnowing, separating wheat from chaff. Why just last month
I disposed of Dali, Miro, Kosinski, Kertesz, while near at hand John Gardner awaits.
I have no particular connection with any of them, except the general
feeling of their influence, which at one time hit me like a wave on rocks,
and I, the earth, let it settle, absorbed it and seemingly forgot about it …
until now, when I am near becoming one of those waves, not to crash
upon the rocks, but hopeful someone sunning on smooth and mild sands
will feel me when I roll in, and out.

The other day I read an obituary about an acquaintance of little fame,
but whose reputation for truth, honesty, hard work and general affability
earned him a seat in the local pantheon. I didn’t clip it out. I went to the funeral home
where the closed coffin held him near. His wife and others dear circulated freely,
pumped like blood through the aorta from his still beating heart. Now I think of that,
and the many bodies still buried in my drawers, one by one and two by two.

I used to collect obituaries of famous people, counting them as one counts milestones hiking unfamiliar paths. Cracked and yellow paper, crisp with time, fresh with Then,
ready to be removed, interred – I, among them, ready to let go.