Loss – Elegy for my grandmother

In loving memory, France Farmer (1918-2012)

I like it best in the morning,

when the cool air still

has something new to say

about the day to come.

Yet a little lamp has gone out

in my home today.

I have known it all my life,

and it has grown dark

all of a sudden.

But light comes,

as usual,

dawn is there,

as usual.

And soon everything

is humming and buzzing

as it should.

There is drilling in my street,

like yesterday;

Planes are taking off for

faraway destinations

– Alexandria maybe –

like the day before;

Subway cars are stopping

at their stops and

mothers are shopping

in their shops;

Children, restless,

are bored in school.

Like tomorrow, no doubt;

While you, dearest,

have gone gently

into that good night.

Words for the time being,

have lost all meaning.

All salt. All savour.

Yet listen well:

a murmur – a deep-rooted

feeling;

A whisper of a friendly wind,

murmurs of a stranger

to stranger yet than she;

say:

‘nothing again

will ever be

the way it was –

because you were:

and so are we.’

So go gently.

Go gently, please,

go gently

and rest,

into that good
morning light.