A Dead Friend Speaks
Almost a year
into my exit from flesh,
what we call,
when embodied,
death,
You talk to me,
wonder if I help
when you struggle and worry,
soothe
when you rage and grieve.
You ask
if I’ve retained shape
and color,
if my long and wild hair,
blonde with streaks of fine silver,
still tumbles down my back,
if I jog and cycle daily
in some shimmery,
cancer-free realm.
Am I still an I,
you query
or has my essence
mixed and mingled
with all the others
wafting in great waves
of something like wind
around and through
cosmic caves
and mountains
glowing in a light
your human brain
can only begin to imagine.
I will neither
confirm nor deny,
sister of my soul.
These
are not your questions,
you
do not
seek answers.
You have always known,
were the one
to reassure me
as my flesh wasted
and my fears grew.
Look for dragonflies,
I said,
and a couple dozen
appeared
in odd places
after I left.
My disembodied
face floats in corners,
signature hair swirling
as if I just dipped
my head
beneath my new surface,
peering through the murky waters
checking in on you.
Sometimes you look up,
acknowledge me,
smile.
Why, then,
do you question?
I am not an I,
but I am as me
as any of us ever are,
just as you
were alive before incarnation,
and will live on
after you discard your body.
Trust is a thick cloak
woven tight with
threads of wisdom
and surrender.
It will always
keep you warm,
as long as you remember
to put it on.
–Melinda Coppola, remembering Marina Powdermaker, who was born 8/27/61 and left her body 6/28/20. We do speak often, she and I.
