Beyond Lingering

Beyond Lingering

(I promised to publish this if it did not get accepted for Wild Onions Magazine 2010. Better late than never. I am including a copy of the original poem that was published in Wild Onions 2009. I own the copyright--please request permission to use it. Thanks)

Lingering
by Susan Oscilowski ©

I shiver from the gloom
This winter day has cast.
Yet just in time the sun
Has fiercely pierced the pall
With hues of gentle gold.
The icy crystals dance
Painting brushstrokes
Of hope in vivid pastels
As they chaperone the dusk
And usher nightfall.
Whose hollow eyes are those
Who in the mirror mock me?
"I look like a cancer patient"
‐‐the thief who dwarfed my days
into December’s darkness.
This burden of pain and sorrow
With gravity’s pull bind me to earth.
"I am light as a feather:"
My spirit glides toward the dawn
That quietly awaits my arrival.

Enveloped in visions of forsythia
As twilight gathers
“I feel like I am not here”
My vision fades...
I disappear like daylight.
I squint to see the first star
Rising above the crescent moon
And hear its healing whisper

In sweetest rapture
I long to reply.

Beyond Lingering

There's no better incentive for a writer than to find approval for words carefully crafted.

With several of my works previously published in Wild Onions, I gained confidence that success could be repeated. Despite my efforts, the rejections outnumber bylines. The “thank you for submitting, but...” letters came when poems were written specifically for the magazine. I cringe that the inspiration for those poems was to see my name in print.

Last year's submission was different. A former Critical Care Nurse from Penn State Hershey Medical Center commissioned me to compose a literary piece based on her experience as a massage therapist for a cancer patient. Shirley and I have been neighbors and friends for years; more than once she has asked me to share my writing gifts. We both rely on the inspiration of my muse to assist in these endeavors.

I trust the creative spirit to move my fingers on the keyboard. I collect observations of life around me each day, and hold those images in my mind. It delights me to incorporate these into my art and writings. One night in early winter, I awoke with a clear vision of what I'd write for Shirley. She told me her client had made a few profound statements in therapy on the massage table, and she sent me those phrases in a note card. I took a deep breath, and a poem flowed, wrapping itself around the words of a woman who knew her death was imminent. For four decades, I have acknowledged my gift for written expression, yet there are times when the words I put on paper have a transcendence to them that demonstrates the deep spiritual connection with which I have been entrusted.

I spent many hours that evening crafting the poem I entitled Lingering. With conviction, I knew I was not working alone. Maturity and discipline have taught me that a first draft may possess raw emotion, but to work the words like stiff clay into a pliable sculpture takes dedicated time and effort. The end result was overpowering. I sent off an e-mail copy to Shirley before I went to sleep; a second recipient was my dear friend, Rita.

Rita and I met at a writers' group in 1989 in Palmyra. She was one of those souls with whom we know in the first encounter that we were put in the same place at the same time for a reason much larger than ourselves. I offered to write a feature article about her for a local daily newspaper, and our relationship grew from there. Rita was a writer and an actress, among other things. Though old enough to be my mother, the generation gap was never an issue. She became my mentor in writing, encouraged me to take a shot at scriptwriting and acting, and was a constant source of encouragement.

Rita's cancer had been diagnosed a year or so before I wrote Lingering. She was in remission, and full of zest and vigor. Any time we were together, I was assured of a fair dose of laughter, faith, inspiration, and surprise. We had talked about my taking over a character she created: Mary Agnes, the Best Bag Lady in Pennsylvania, as she said she was planning to retire the one-woman variety show. Mary Agnes entertained more than 1,000 audiences, illuminating homelessness while raising money for local shelters. Her reply to my poem's acceptance was like a mother whose kid just won the Spelling Bee: “Fantastic!!!!”

I asked Shirley if she minded my submitting the poem to Wild Onions. It was finished long before the deadline, unlike every other year. She also was enthusiastic about the poem's outcome, and was moved by the feelings the work evoked.

When I found out Lingering would appear in the 2009 edition of the literary magazine, my first calls were to Shirley and Rita, who were both ecstatic for me. I kept May 14 open, because I looked forward to being at the opening reception, and reading my poem for the crowd gathered to celebrate.

On my way to my work in the Simulation Center on May 14, I received a call from Rita's daughter, Michelle. “Mom has taken a turn for the worse; you'd better get here soon,” she told me. She invited me to meet her at the hospital where her mother was awaiting her passing. I requested a copy of the just-published Wild Onions magazine to take with me to share with Rita and her family. I had every intention to visit for an hour or two, and get back in time for the reception.

I entered the room, amidst a parade of visitors who had been pouring in all week to bid her farewell. Wearing a silly hat from Goodwill with dangling ribbons, I sang, “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine...,” a tune she included in all her Bag Lady shows. Her family knew it too well; she meant it sincerely each time she crooned it on any occasion when she had a stage or an audience. The silly hat was in response to her insistence that audience members don one from her collection at each show. My costume headpiece was intended for her use as the remains of her hair---roots severed from chemo treatments--- fell out on her pillow.

“I know you! You're Suzy O!” Rita said, giving me a strained smile when I tossed a copy of the publication on her bed. Although she was too medicated to read my poem, the family members present were clearly moved by the message of my writing, and its uncanny timing. I'm pretty sure that when Rita initially read it mid-winter, she had no idea that she, like the subject of “Lingering,” was facing her last spring on earth. The healing power of the words was meant more for her loved ones than for her. I didn't leave her side until nearly midnight that evening. What I missed in affirmation at the reception here given by the Humanities Department was more than compensated for, as she gave my poem renewed meaning.

Lingering, is about awaiting death, taking note of our last few glimpses of the world we are leaving behind. I had collected imagery for the poem during many months of driving as a courier. That winter, I delivered nuclear medicine to Hershey Medical Center and other hospitals. I felt comfort knowing that the work I did was making a difference in the lives of patients. I saw Rita the week before the reception on a pre-dawn delivery. She was putting on make-up with the aid of a nurse, and bragging about my accomplishments like I was one of her beloved grandchildren.

My copy of Wild Onions—not just my poem---was my ticket to participate in the final week of Rita's life here. She wore my silly hat like a tiara, holding court as she entertained us, just as she had done so magnificently in life. The day after I missed the Wild Onions reception, I had to call Shirley to tell her of the events surrounding Lingering. “Suzy,” Shirley spoke in a gentle voice, “Joann—the woman you wrote the poem for—died last night. I was wondering if I could read it at her memorial service.” The timing of Joann's passing, on the night of the missed reception for her poem, was among an amazing collection of coincidences surrounding my time with Rita.

Rita deserves credit for my current positions at the College of Medicine. As I delivered one of my literary submissions to the Department of Humanities Office many years ago, I noticed an ad on a bulletin board seeking actors to work in medical simulation exercises.

I had confidence to try it out because, like Rita, I found my place on stage in community theater in my mid-forties. She and I faithfully attended each other's plays, provided they weren't run simultaneously. The last show of mine she attended was “Dearly Departed.” Knowing Rita was in the audience prompted me to put on my best performance. My character was a not-so-grieving widow in the comedy about a family's response to funeral plans, and humorous situations surrounding what should be a somber event. Rita's funeral, though hampered by heavy downpours, was filled with hope, joy, laughter, singing, and liquor-laden toasts common at Irish burials.

Rita-- my mentor in spiritual matters, writing, theater, parenting, and life—advised me early on to write what I knew best. The first poem of mine that appeared in Wild Onions was about Labor and Delivery, a subject in which I am well acquainted, having given birth to eight children. My first script was written at her urging, and I based one of the main characters on a blend of her life and mine. Since her death, I have written more frequently, and with greater passion than I have in a long time. I've not been afraid to share what I've written. I'm optimistic that I will be in attendance for future receptions for the magazine. And if I don't make it, you can bet I'm off somewhere, wearing a silly hat, doing other vital work in her memory.