grief

The Gift of the Trowel

| Shari Daniels

My youngest brother, Christopher, died suddenly on December 11, 2024. He was 47 years old, 12 years younger than myself. He was full of life, mentored and trained by my father as a mason and followed in his footsteps, as one who builds things of stone, brick and cement, with the work of his hands. He left behind a daughter and son, a mother whose heart is broken, four older siblings, and hundreds of people who loved and admired him and his work.

As when my father died five years ago, I struggled to make meaning of his leaving this earth with the rest of us behind. There must be something that is to be done to carry their legacy of who they were forward. What is it that he wants me to do? To be?

I held one of his treasured and very used cement trowels in my hand and I knew. Everything he made was out in the world for all to see – it would last for decades. Centuries perhaps. Banks, homes and schools. His work is a gift to be admired.

I wasn’t doing that.

I filled notebooks of writing, every day pages filled, rarely sharing with the world my work. A blog with long seasons of neglect. A few academic articles published. He was telling me, after his death, put it out there – before it is too late. I’m 59 years old. Get to work. Get-er-done. He would be my guide, my biggest cheerleader, my mentor and teacher.

So, here I am, writing poems for my brother so he knows what he’s left behind. So, he knows his influence. So, he knows he is loved and will not be forgotten.

The Gift from the Trowel (poem #1 for Christopher)

What can I make of all this?
All that he left behind?
His daughter, his son.
A mother whose prayers
gave the wrong answer.

All the tools of the maker - 
concrete crusted saws and rusty blades,
missing drill bits and duct-taped cords.
Scattered and strewn here and there.

His trowel sits alone . . .
now out of the dance.

Like the brush of a painter,
the pen of a poet,
or the knife of a Maplewood carver - 
this tool of the artist,
now idle and still
is nothing without the art-maker.

My fingers embrace
the gray, faded, handle,
curling tightly where his would've been.
I feel his soft hand blanket warm over mine
as he decides to take over as guide.

His voice whispers so calmly, so wise and so brave - 
and says - Shari-boo - Big Sis -

it's your turn.

Tokens of My Father #SOL 22/31 ~ 2021

| Shari Daniels
My dad and I

There are moments where the grief I carry deep within me from the loss of my father is so overwhelming that every planned intention for that period of time must come to a complete halt.

These moments do not always occur when an image reminds me of him – like sitting in my car at the drive through window at the bank and admiring the bricks he lay with his hands.

They do not always occur when something prompts me to think of a memory, like the barking dogs that trigger the story of my dad in his slippers, in the middle of the night, on the three wheeler, riding over to the neighbors to do something about the neighbor dog, Cupcake.

It happens when I’m startled by how many days he’s been gone and I’ve realized that I’ve lost track.

It happens when I’m shaken at the observation that I’ve not written or talked with him in awhile.

It happens when I’m plagued by the fear that world will forget he was here.

He’s fading away I cry, farther and farther away from our view, like Jack in the Titanic floating away in the dark. Rose calling his name until her voice tires and all that is left is silence. And, she is alone for the rest of her life.

Yet . . . she lives on.

But, she carries with her a silent gift – a precious jewel – she wears it hidden, as a token of their love.

I keep forgetting, allowing my days to fill with meaningless fluffery. Forgetting that I promised to keep his memory alive. The documenting of his life, his influence, his legacy.

Perhaps, I’m just hearing now, that this task is not meant to be mine, but to ask for others to share their own tokens of his memory. To put them somewhere safe so all those who blessed to know him can remember him dearly, and keep his memory alive.

It began a year after he left us, the Tokens of My Father seed was planted. It slowing beginning to sprout, was dormant over the winter months, and with spring, my wish is for warm light from others to help nurture it’s growth. I can’t continue alone.

I am a good starter. Not so good at finishing.

Which in this case, I don’t intend for it to ever be done.

This token of stories to hold him near.