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A Poem I Love

by on September 6, 2020

The following poem was written by Marco M. Pardi (this site’s author), and originally published in “Death: An Anthropological Perspective” @1977 University Press of America

Yesterday I was reminded of this beloved poem when I arrived at work to find new product in my store – lovely little living succulents and cacti planted in containers that look like pumpkins. I love this poem and have a difficult time reading it without tears.

The author has granted permission to share the textbook, even though he has often reminded me it was “written in a hurry.” Regardless, he is altogether too humble at times, especially in specific crafts such as his writing. It’s sadly not a very lengthy textbook, but the book’s author has been writing and sharing for several years on this very site.

I’m eternally grateful for Marco’s wisdom, knowledge, and experience shared both on this site and in the text – a text that remains quite relevant overall, even greater than four decades later.

       Once I happened to see my little daughter

running up the drive.

Her face looked homeward as she carried her toys,

all bundled in her arms.

Her visit with her playmate

had made the day bright.

A well used, but oh so precious china tea set

was carefully packed in a plastic jack-o-lantern,

swinging from a plastic handle.

Oh!  The lantern fell!  How?

The cheap handle cocked garishly

above the now still “pumpkin”

resting on the concrete drive,

A little person stopped …. 

and, bending over, stared …. 

her happy face,

in a timeless moment,

turned to ……. to what?

Sorrow? … Agony? … Loss?

But none of these could say it.

      How could I get there in time?

GODDAMN the existence of concrete!!

I must stop the hurt;

I must let her know it is unnecessary.

I ran to her and hugged her,

I told her I would fix it ….

it would be all right.

I had the best glue in the world!

We would work together!

And, she stopped crying …. 

her face slowly brightening.

I have seen death come from my own hands.

There has never been a glue …….

even hugs don’t really work.

                                     m. pardi

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