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zarada

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i've burned many a page in my stainless steel wine cooler. cleans right up.

i must bow to you, you are very strong. no wonder you carry Baby with such ease.
 

CassandraW

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and I have a stainless steel wine cooler! that's perfect, and I hadn't thought of it. thanks for the idea (and the nice compliment).
 

CassandraW

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i've burned many a page in my stainless steel wine cooler. cleans right up.

The wine bucket worked perfectly. Thanks! It was actually rather fun watching the poem flare up.

I'm doing the ash scattering tomorrow at around 2:30. If you think of it, send me good thoughts. I'll be on my own for the scattering, and it will be a sad afternoon. Fortunately, my Sarataga friends will get back into town that evening, and another friend is driving up as well, so I will have a nice weekend afterwards with lots of support.

These same three friends flew in for my dad's funeral, by the way, which touched me more than I can say. It was a total surprise -- I did not know they were planning to come until I saw them in the church. I very badly needed the support, more than I could have admitted -- luckily for me, they knew how close I was to my dad and guessed just how bereft I would feel.
 

zarada

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a pink soft, fluffy cotton candy cloud of love and goodwill is on its way to you for two thirtiesh arrival. remember that your father is now free and empowered by your love; so don't let sadness get the better of you. revel in the comfort of your friends' support, and be well.
 

Kylabelle

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((((Cass))))
 

Stew21

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sending love and strength and peace your way, lovely.

We'll be here when you get back.
:heart:
 

CassandraW

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As is often the case in life (or so I've found, at least), things didn't go quite as i'd envisioned. Instead of the sad, dignified, symbolic experience I anticipated, I had farce. But somehow, me being me, and my dad being who he was, that didn't ruin it.

I had detailed instructions from my dad's friends on how to find the place they'd scattered my dad's best friend's ashes years ago (a hollow tree in a wooded area near the race course stables). And, as though guided by my father's hand, I am certain I found the very spot.

Only there were people around. And it's technically not legal to dump ashes any old place you like, so I didn't want to do it in front of them.

Keep in mind that dad was in multiple twist-tied baggies (because it would be distressing and awful to have the ashes spill out in my handbag). Also, my dad's friend's widow had given me a tupperware bowl filled with the last of her husband's ashes, which she had never gotten around to scattering. And my mom had me bring the ashes of the family dog (whom my dad adored). And I had a baggie with my poem ashes.

So picture me with endless quadruple-wrapped, tupperware-encased, twist-tied, ziplocked packets of assorted remains, which I must undo and scatter illicitly in a semi-public place.

I thought perhaps I could pretend I was picnicking, and dump them surreptitiously, but the sheer logistics of getting through all those bags and bundles under the idle gaze of stable hands and casual passersby defeated me. With a silent apology to dad, I found a more secluded tree.

Only I still never had more than a minute or two without someone coming by. I shall not trouble you with the sordid details, except to say that instead of the teary, emotional, fraught-with-symbolism affair i'd pictured, I was furtively scrambling with multiple dusty bags, dumping them as hastily as possible, and, i'm afraid, giggling.

But the funny thing is, I very much felt Dad with me. How he would have laughed at seeing his normally poised daughter engaged in this rather less than dignified enterprise. He would have held his stomach laughing as I rustled around for dead leaves to cover the pile of assorted ashes (which are heavy, like sand, and do not drift mystically into the summer breeze), and hunted around for a trash can to get rid of the dusty collection of bags. (I had a mad fleeting thought that my dad's friend's widow might want her tupperware back. It passed.)

But more than any time since my dad died, I felt him with me. I can't really explain that; you would have to know us both.

I am no gambler, but I then went to the track (where my father went every August) to place a sentimental bet in his honor. The next race had two horses whose names leapt out at me: "Where's Poppa?" and "A Few Good Friends". I bet Poppa to win, and Friends to place. Friends came in third. Poppa came in last, so far behind he was practically in another race; the betters around me were making jokes about it. And Dad would have gotten a big laugh out of that, too.
 
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Stew21

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We find closure in many varied ways. Sometimes even giggling.

I'm glad you had your moment that you felt him with you.

((hugs))
 

Kylabelle

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Ah, what a fine story. I totally get it that your Pa was right there with you and having a good laugh at such antics of sentiment gone wonkers.

I bet he feels thoroughly honored.
 

juniper

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But the funny thing is, I very much felt Dad with me. How he would have laughed at seeing his normally poised daughter engaged in this rather less than dignified enterprise. ...
But more than any time since my dad died, I felt him with me. I can't really explain that; you would have to know us both.

Cass - :Hug2:What a wonderful tribute to your father, both the poem and the scattering of ashes. I totally believe his presence was there with you. I've had a similar experience, long ago, that I can still FEEL.

I loved your poem, and your reading of it. I agree with whoever said that hearing a poet read her own work is amazing - really brings out the emotional and visual aspects.

Thank you for sharing this with us.
 

CassandraW

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Apparently "Where's Poppa?" is a question likely to come up in every race she runs (the answer being "somewhere in the next race"). She finished 12th of 12 at Belmont back in June. http://www.skysports.com/racing/form-profiles/horse/882713/wheres-poppa

I cannot begin to tell you how my father would have laughed at my (rather uncharacteristic) sentimental folly in betting on her. I so wish I could send him that link, but I must content myself with posting it.
 
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tiddlywinks

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Cass,

As you know, I don't generally wander into the poetry threads. Not because I doubt any of your fine talents here as poets, but because I stink as a critter of poetry and I generally don't "get it".

You made me cry. Both with the poem itself and again with your explanation behind writing it in post #19. I lost my grandfather in hospice, and it still tears me up inside and the ragged breathes, the out of time, the all I have left is space...

Beautiful.

Thank you so much for sharing. And I'm really glad I read it.

Hugs,

Winks
 

CassandraW

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Winks, thank you so much for posting and telling me that. As any of the poets here would tell you, there is a very special satisfaction in knowing your work has moved someone who normally isn't all that into poetry. This poem is particularly important to me, and so it is especially nice to hear.
 

CassandraW

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Sorry to bump my own thread, but it occurred to me some of you who commented might be interested in hearing a bit of an epilogue to this poem.

One of our AW mods showed my poem to his daughter, who runs a training program for hospice staff. The daughter (who is also a poet) used hospice in one of these programs, with my permission (and using my real name, which is not CassandraW). In fact, I understand she used my reading of it (link in post #11), which makes me feel a little weird, but also pleases me.

As I mentioned, I couldn't bear the idea of trying to sell this poem, but I loved the idea of it being used to help hospice personnel understand and empathize with grief.

Since the poem is now out there in the world with my real name attached, I had this thread moved to chapbook, in case any of you are wondering why it's not in the main forum any more. Another advantage is that I feel less guilty about bumping it!
 

poetinahat

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I was going to apologise for having missed this poem when you posted it - but I'm glad I'm reading it for the first time now. I understand it more, and it strikes a stronger chord with me now, than I would have back then. After several recent events, I understand well the difference between empty space, and space recently vacated. It's everything, isn't it?

It's a delight to read how your friends, and your dad's spirit, were with you.
 

CassandraW

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Thank you for reading.

The difference between empty space and the space that once held something beloved is indeed enormous. And the feeling when the space has only just been vacated is surreal.