what is it about a new year. Interrupted

I lost my Dad last week.
And then my Grandma.
But my Dad?  He's my Dad ya'll.

He wasn't finished.
Here's the thing.
I had started a New Years poem back on actual New Years Eve.
I finished it for you.

And for him.

And probably for me too.

what is it about a New Year
when the last one just keeps passing
a pandemic, an election, candles, cake

celebrations, mourning, unfinished 
a new one keeps arriving
uninvited, unrequited, not as planned
bubbles, streamers, kisses.  Silly hats.
 

++++++++
[January 15th]
And then it is interrupted.
passing means more than time
Mourning and unfinished. 
These words hit different. More. heavier.

And you wonder why you started then abandoned a free form poem
Three weeks ago
When the form was freer.

Now you know probate. 
Embalming. Urns. 
There are rules for urns.  Did you know there are urn rules?
Not very free form.

Paperwork is overwhelming.
Teamwork abounds. Mostly.
Find the passwords.
Tax implications.

When did grief become a logistic?

Hymns, readings.  
Is a mass a celebration of life?
Do you know him like I do?

How do you put the right words
Ones that fit nicely in the columns.
Is there a budget for telling your story?
Is my final jpeg hi res enough?

No one taught me how to do this part of life.

So I look for the silly hats. 
Found them in the back closet.
With the mice droppings.
Also the fancy china.

The confetti and streamers?
Those are in the places you don’t expect.

The stories of the sister who ran away.  But only to the corner.
Too young to cross the street without her brother.
 
The hikers, the dreamers, the planners.
The careful details of every single day.
Not the feelings. Just the details.
Every pamphlet that exists.

The receipts that should have been tossed.
Circa 2006.
Glad you saved money on that CVS trip, Dad.

The failing college grades (I’ll never tell).
Sixteen years of engineering magazines.
The bike license from 1975.

The letter to your Dad about the three girls you are dating in fall of 1972.
You married one seven months later.
The tall, intelligent brunette you knew he’d like.
You met her on the bus.
Sounds like she’s a good cook.

And the bookmark in your childhood Bible.
I’ll keep the verse to myself.

The hiking routes… carefully planned. 
The tissues and bandanas and funeral programs in those Marmot pockets.
Gotta keep them dry and warm.

And always a buckeye.
Do you know how lucky you were?

You really could have thrown some things away.

Did you need seventeen pairs of eyeglasses to see
How loved you are?

I’ll take that tomato pie recipe.
If you tackle the garage.

What a reminder 
that we only have each other for a time
sometimes that time is yours,
sometimes it is mine.

Who do we belong to, really?

Funny I asked what it is about a new year
Now that we are in these new places
You and me.

Sounds like it will always be unfinished.
Life certainly seems to be.

So until the next time with the streamers and confetti
Let’s not let the next unfinished celebration pass.
Until I have the receipts.
Already got the hat.