Elegy for Margaret by Michael P. Bobbitt
Elegy for Margaret
“Is her still dead?”A 3-year old big sister giving voiceTo a very grown-up confusion—Baby Margaret, blameless and perfect in her mother’s embrace,Swaddled in the arms of death.
Surely there’s been some mistake,The Reaper with a wrong addressOr a God distracted by beauty elsewhere in creationTo let this happen.
“Why is she so cold, daddy?”“Because this is just her body, sweetheart. Her spirit lives in our hearts now.”And yet there are still forms to sign,Flowers and dinners and details to arrange—All the things that people do—Well-meaning friends grasping for something to sayWhen no poet or minister Could ever find a single comforting wordThat would but wither in the face of this despair.
A family strewn instantly against the rocks, irreparably broken.
Because we’re not starfish or lizards.When you cut away a part of usThe empty space is there forever,A phantom chord ringing unresolved in our ear—A one/three clamoring for a fiveOr even the sting of a minor seventh—Anything but these missing notes.
When already her songWas the joyful refrain for so many,The unfinished symphony of a life unlived.
Mother and Father must go on shepherding,Encouraged by the Christ storyBecause Resurrection is yet possible:That a baby’s light cannot be entombed,Shining still on a family that refuses to go dark.On her sisters that must bear this loss together.In the carefree affection of Genevieve,In the calculating whimsy of Josephine,In the grace and poise of Cordelia.
In all of usWho resolve to carry on in the midst of sorrow.To sing into the stillness of heartbreak.To answer the impermanence of lifeWith the eternal promise of love.Suffer the little children…For of such is the kingdom of heaven,But suffer one another as well, friends—Because the kingdom of Earth Holds but small refuge Beyond each other.
And the hopefully frequent memories Of this sweet child—Wide-eyed and laughing—
A peace in the hearts of men.
“Is her still dead?”A 3-year old big sister giving voiceTo a very grown-up confusion—Baby Margaret, blameless and perfect in her mother’s embrace,Swaddled in the arms of death.
Surely there’s been some mistake,The Reaper with a wrong addressOr a God distracted by beauty elsewhere in creationTo let this happen.
“Why is she so cold, daddy?”“Because this is just her body, sweetheart. Her spirit lives in our hearts now.”And yet there are still forms to sign,Flowers and dinners and details to arrange—All the things that people do—Well-meaning friends grasping for something to sayWhen no poet or minister Could ever find a single comforting wordThat would but wither in the face of this despair.
A family strewn instantly against the rocks, irreparably broken.
Because we’re not starfish or lizards.When you cut away a part of usThe empty space is there forever,A phantom chord ringing unresolved in our ear—A one/three clamoring for a fiveOr even the sting of a minor seventh—Anything but these missing notes.
When already her songWas the joyful refrain for so many,The unfinished symphony of a life unlived.
Mother and Father must go on shepherding,Encouraged by the Christ storyBecause Resurrection is yet possible:That a baby’s light cannot be entombed,Shining still on a family that refuses to go dark.On her sisters that must bear this loss together.In the carefree affection of Genevieve,In the calculating whimsy of Josephine,In the grace and poise of Cordelia.
In all of usWho resolve to carry on in the midst of sorrow.To sing into the stillness of heartbreak.To answer the impermanence of lifeWith the eternal promise of love.Suffer the little children…For of such is the kingdom of heaven,But suffer one another as well, friends—Because the kingdom of Earth Holds but small refuge Beyond each other.
And the hopefully frequent memories Of this sweet child—Wide-eyed and laughing—
A peace in the hearts of men.
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