Poem by Marie Howe

My Dead Friends

I have begun,
when I'm weary and can't decide an answer to a bewildering question

to ask my dead friends for their opinion
and the answer is often immediate and clear.

Should I take the job? Move to the city? Should I try to conceive a child
in my middle age?

They stand in unison shaking their heads and smiling-whatever leads
to joy, they always answer,

to more life and less worry. I look into the vase where Billy's ashes were-
it's green in there, a green vase,

and I ask Billy if I should return the difficult phone call, and he says, yes.
Billy's already gone through the frightening door,
whatever he says I'll do.

by Marie Howe

Comments

[EVe Washburn]

I JUST LOST MY BEST FRIEND IN MARCH. ON THIS PAST GLORIOUS SATURDAY WE HAD A CELEBRATION OF HIS LIFE IN HIS GARDENS. YOU SEE, HE WAS A WONDERFUL GARDENER, WE WANTED TO SHARE HIS GARDENS WITH ALL HIS FRIENDS. FOR ME, THIS SPRING I HAVE SPENT MY TIME ON MY HANDS AND KNEES WORKING IN MY OWN GARDEN ASKING HIM QUESTIONS AS TO PLACEMENT, COLOR ARRANGEMENT, LATIN NAME, ETC. OF EACH AND EVERY PLANT I TOUCHED. HE IS WITH ME, HE IS LISTENING, AND MOST IMPORTANTLY, HE IS ANSWERING. I MISS YOU SO.

[msmas]

I just showed this poem to
my husband last night -
before you blogged it.
Thank you - and it's so
true because our dead friends
will always tell us which
path to take.(Not true of
our dead parents, it seems.)