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I Am the Grass. Let Me Work

                                                                                                                                             One of my favorite poems by Carl Sandburg (see the full poem here http://www.poetry-archive.com/s/grass.html ) came to mind on Saturday as a group of us cleaned up the cemetery at the Grand Rapids Home for Veterans. Neat rows of white markers stretch across a wide space. Some are detailed, providing rank, unit, and field of service; some have only a name and a date of death. It makes one think about the grass. There we were, working above ground. There they were, lying below it. Between us was the grass. It will be there when we, too, are underground. It will hide what we were, how we felt. There will be only a name and a few details. So why do we get so upset about things?

At Death's Door: Wishing They'd Let Me In

That was yesterday: if I opened my eyes, the world spun at merry-go-round speed. My head felt like it was splitting open. And a bucket was my closest friend. Today is better, though I'm babying my stomach lest it grow nasty again. Experiences like that makes me wonder about people who have real problems. Not just a 24 hour bug, but serious pain, serious issues. When he was diagnosed with cancer, my dad said he was lucky to have lived a good life. My mother said she hoped doctors could learn something from her experience so they could save the next person. And my daughter often pointed out there were people worse off than she was, though I couldn't imagine who that would be. I hope I can continue the family tradition of bravely facing death when my time comes, but after yesterday I'm afraid I'll just beg them to open those pearly gates and let me in.