Some people say that the only constant is change. I would argue that there is another constant: loss.
Life is about comings and goings, but I have never grown used to the “goings” of people in my life, especially those people who matter most. I don’t think I’m alone in this. I think there are just people who think about these things and people who choose not to think about these things.
I can’t help but think about it. I’m hardwired for emotion. I have oversized feelings. And I miss those people. I miss the friends who shared parts of my life and now would be shocked by how much things have changed. I miss the family who have passed and those who have chosen to be separate from me and my life.
I feel like it is my responsibility to capture our family stories. I’m not sure who wants to hear them, but I know that if I don’t write them down, they could be easily lost. I wish I would have written them down when my grandparents were still alive; even with genealogy apps and the digitization of newspapers, I only get pieces of the story.
There are many stories about my grandfather, John Stevenson Reeve, that I wish I had written down when he was still alive. The more I learn about him, the more I realize that I didn’t really know him – not really – and as I get older and think about my own aging, my kids growing up, loneliness, and what my “non-working” life might look like, I have questions that I want to ask him.
And so I write. I recently wrote this poem about my grandfather. He was born December 19, 1899 in Kings County, New York (now Brooklyn). He died in 1997. He was 97 years old. Independent, stubborn, generous, private, and very smart, Poppy Reeve was incredibly proud of my father and his family and Penn Yan Auto Parts, which was an extension of our family. For all of my life, he lived alone in the cottage that he had moved across the lake and that is what this poem is about.
JSR
You sit silently in
the overstuffed chair—
this is how I remember you.
They are a pair
these chairs
but it’s obvious which one is yours
the gray brocade
wearing thin on the arms
once the height of fashion
and now a loose fitting jacket
the back stained dark from years of
Pomade and Brylcreem
the other chair has sat empty
all my life.
Do you think about that empty chair
as days become
months become
years
and you sit
alone
or have you left the past
in the past
without question
without analysis
without wondering
why?
I think I must not be like you since
I can’t let go of
the past
the loss
the grief
the empty chair would hold too many memories
and would have been donated
to good will.
But not you.
Still
you sit
everything there is to say
captured in nothing
but stillness.
the wheel of fortune that turned
and left you
alone in the overstuffed chair
will leave your story
untold.
