doreen peri wrote:When you leave, someone will have to go through the box and decide what to keep. They will need to either store the chosen remainders in another box in their closet or throw it all away.
Jojo knew the pearly address,
knew the house and street and number,
knew the gates where heaven opened
to a soul who truly needed:
to a boy whose life seemed nothing;
to a boy whose friends were absent
conversations of his making
stored within imagination—
artificial, non-existent.
Heaven image: perfect garden
state and Jojo’s was New Jersey,
was his paradise of welcome,
was his place where life, he found it:
there was Baba, there her welcome.
Not as friend, as not his making,
but the welcome he so needed:
she the welcome he so welcomed,
she the garden heaven imaged.
Baba was a special angel—
special in her ways so humble,
special as she never hid her
nature midst the hosts of heaven.
Baba gave no condescension,
never lied about her mission,
never lied and said she wasn’t
called to bless her blessing onward,
called to bless her blessed Jojo.
So he came to her and loved her,
came to share her laugh and blessing—
Jojo, through but heaven summers,
dealing past his awkward loneness,
dealing handfuls of Canasta
he and Baba dealt between them
from the cool breeze of her deck chairs
and the closeness of her kitchen:
sweet iced tea and more than friendship.
She was beautiful, his Baba,
beautiful, both out- and in-side,
beautiful past words to tell it.
She was beautiful: she loved him
and he begged her, “Never leave me.”
Baba gave no condescension;
Baba had no lust to leave him;
Baba was an honest angel,
ancient angel, mortal angel.
Baba gave her all to Jojo,
gave her wealth of faith and stories.
Baba blessed with what can never
burn or fade or rust forgotten:
as her wings could fly no longer,
work a little, rest a little,
from her chair she blessed her Jojo
with the stories of her faith-life
reliquaried neck and fingers
and in tongues she spoke her blessing
through the laughter of her kisses,
toothless, wet, Miss-Piggy-kisses;
through the Slovak of her Baba,
Baba’s blessed generations;
through the silence of devotions
in her darkened morning corners
where she prayed on her commission,
prayed on faith for all her angels.
As her wings could fly no longer,
Baba blessed her Jojo further:
not the house of all their summers,
not its rooms and deck and garden,
not its setting of her stories,
not its setting of her welcome,
of her welcome he so welcomed:
not that house was heaven’s address,
but the love they shared between them.
“Oh my Jojo; oh my Jojo;
there are ways I’ll never leave you:
in your dreams and love and being,
in this love we share as heaven—
love that only God has offered—
in such love, I’ll never leave you.”
So spoke Baba last her blessing,
last time Slovak words: “I love you.”
Ja vam l’ubim, moje Baba.
All those bits of heaven’s address
had their meaning in a blessing,
in their context: Baba, Jojo;
good news passed between two angels,
good news passed in faith and stories.
Jojo knew the pearly address,
knew its threshold pains and laughter,
knew true heaven is too big for
little relics lacking Baba.
Jojo felt a cool breeze comfort,
like the breeze of deck Canasta,
like the wings of angels’ flying,
like a whisper, God was saying:
“So is love in all true glory
to a boy whose friends were absent
conversations of his making
stored within imagination—
artificial, non-existent.
Such finds love in all true glory,
such finds movement, real and present
(not in relics made to meanings,
not in voice assigned to trappings
given lofty false-friend status)
love addressed beyond still borders,
love addressed in love dynamic,
heaven honest as it should be.”
Ja vam l’ubim, moje Baba.