I worried Tuesday night. I worried the next day. I worried all week. But I set worry aside to bury my cousin yesterday.
My cousin Dolores died last month in Jacksonville, Florida. It was an agonizing death. Her kidneys and liver gave out. She was in and out of comas. Still, she faced death valiantly. She was a devout Christian and a devout Republican.
She voted for the president.
We hadn’t seen each other for years. And then out of the blue I heard the news.
I missed most of her life. I wish I had known her better. We would have disagreed on much, but we would have gotten along. We’re family.
Yesterday we interred her ashes at the Sylvan Heights Cemetery in Uniontown, Pennsylvania, next to her father, my uncle Joe, and her two brothers, my cousins David and Donny. Her father and my father were brothers.
I have ten cousins on my father’s side. As children we frolicked together every summer. The days were long. And then long gone. We grew apart. Distant.
Now only five of us remain. We’ve grown old. Saturday we stood together under the shadow of death.
Family.
We don’t choose our family. Families are given. We might not like each other or see eye to eye, but we find a way to get along—somehow, if not easily.
We don’t choose our fellow citizens either. Compatriots come with the territory. We might not like each other, but we must get along.
The funeral ended.
And then THE NEWS broke!
We now have a chance to come together. I could worry that we won’t.
But, alas, worrying gets us nowhere.
I Worried
by Mary Oliver
I worried a lot. Will the garden grow, will the rivers
flow in the right direction, will the earth turn
as it was taught, and if not how shall
I correct it?
Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven,
can I do better?
Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrows
can do it and I am, well,
hopeless.
Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it,
am I going to get rheumatism,
lockjaw, dementia?
Finally I saw that worrying had come to nothing.
And gave it up. And took my old body
and went out into the morning,
and sang.
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See Paula’s “Barn in the Fog” photograph on the home page.