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| Darya Grey_Owl |
Susan
Shortly before my first class as a writing teacher
at the retirement community,
a slender, vibrant, older woman
greets me with a warm smile.
“I’m really glad you’re here.”
Her welcome eases my initial nervousness.
During the class she tells me,
“I wrote poetry as a child
but stopped writing after my uncle
criticized one of my poems.
I’m excited to be writing again.”
I’m surprised to discover she’s 94.
Susan’s enthusiasm is contagious:
her eager embrace of my writing prompts;
encouragement – “That’s beautiful,” she responds
to a classmate’s writing;
joy in sharing her own writing,
pithy bits of wisdom tinged with humor.
She writes about her work as a special ed. teacher.
“I loved it,” she tells us.
“It wasn’t hard at all
once you got on the children’s wavelength.”
She’s had a lot of tragedy in her life:
her son’s suicide,
the death of a beloved younger brother,
but she always comes to class
looking lit from within,
a fountain of kind words.
Then one day her face is eclipsed by dark clouds.
“My best friend died yesterday.
I’m really sad,” she confides.
While her classmates write,
Susan’s head is bowed,
her face a dam holding back tears.
Two weeks later, at the next class,
Ruth, her friend, tells me,
“Susan had a bad fall.
She’s in the hospital.
It looks serious.”
The following class Ruth informs us,
“Susan died this week.”
There’s a moment of silence,
each of us silently saying
our own personal goodbye to Susan.
Her soft eyes, a palace of light,
flash before me.
Enjoy more poems by Ralph Dranow HERE.
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| Ralph Dranow |
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