Christmas and Loss

      I went to a funeral today—the husband of P., a woman who long ago reached out in a characteristically big-hearted way to become my friend. A fairly new, uncomfortable suburbanite in Maplewood, NJ, I had begun attending an aerobics class in the basement of a nearby church at the suggestion of my only friend in town. All of us aerobicizers were crazy about this class because of the charismatic teacher, the childcare and the endorphin rush at the end of class.

      Amid high kicks and one-two-three-FOWER!! counts, P. used to seek me out and pull me into the center-front with her saying, “You’ve got to enjoy this…it won’t always be here like this.” That was the first time I learned that she is a master of appreciation. And in time that serendipitous moment, when a church basement magnified and connected us, did pass.

     I knew P.’s husband less well. But today in church I remembered something that said so much to me about him when I first learned about a Christmas custom of his more than 21 years ago. Every year he made, by hand, a Christmas ornament symbolizing the important events in P.’s life for the prior 12 months. I will think of P.’s Christmas tree this year when I put up my own.

     Here is a poem by W.H. Auden that was on the back of the program. A lament that will haunt me.

Stop All The Clocks, Cut Off The Telephone

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone.

Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone.

Silence the pianos and with muffled drum

Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead

Scribbing in the sky the message He is Dead,

Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,

Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,

My working week and my Sunday rest

My noon, my midnight, my talk my song;

I thought that love would last forever, I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.

Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;

For nothing now can ever come to any good.