Several of us have noted that the past year has brought a lot of loss to our lives, loved ones, dear friends, animal friends, and so on. It seems many of us are going through a tough time where we are constantly reminded of mortality and our own eventual passing.

I have just lost an aunt, my mom two years ago, another aunt is very fragile, and a couple of furry members of our family are now gone. Without meaning to be too morbid or negative, I'd like to offer the following song and poem in memory of them all:

They Are Falling All Around Me
words and music by Bernice Johnson Reagon © 1975
as heard on Holly Near's tape, "Sky Dances"

They are falling all around me
They are falling all around me
They are falling all around me
The strongest leaves of my tree.

Every paper brings the news that
Every paper brings the news that
Every paper brings the news that
The teachers of my sounds are moving on.

Death comes and rests so heavy
Death comes and rests so heavy
Death comes and rests so heavy
Your face I'll never see no more.

But you're not really going to leave me,
you're not really going to leave me,
you're not really going to leave me,
It is your path I walk
It is your song I sing
It is your load I take on
It is your air I breathe
It's the record you set that makes me go on.
It's your strength that helps me stand.
You're not really going to leave me.

I will try to sing my song right
I will try to sing my song right
I will try to sing my song right
Be sure to let me hear from you.

AND:

CHILDHOOD IS THE KINGDOM WHERE NOBODY DIES
Edna St. Vincent Millay

Childhood is not from birth to a certain age and at a certain age
The child is grown, and puts away childish things.

Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies.

Nobody that matters, that is. Distant relatives of course,
Die, whom one never has seen or has seen for an hour,
And they gave one candy in a pink-and-green striped bag, or a jack-knife,
And went away, and cannot really be said to have lived at all.

And cats die. They lie on the floor and lash their tails,
And their reticent fur is suddenly all in motion
With fleas that one never knew were there,
Polished and brown, knowing all there is to know,
Trekking off into the living world.
You fetch a shoe-box, but it's much too small,
because she won't curl up now;
So you find a bigger box, and bury her in the yard, and weep.

But you do not wake up a month from then, two months,
A year from then, two years, in the middle of the night
And weep, with your knuckles in your mouth, and say Oh God! Oh God!

Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies that matters, --mothers and fathers don't die.

As if you have said, "For heaven's sake, must you always be kissing a person?"
Or, "I do wish to gracious you'd stop tapping on the window with your thimble!"
Tomorrow, or even the day after tomorrow if you're busy having fun,
Is plenty of time to say, "I'm sorry mother."

To be grown up to is to sit at the table with people
who have died, who neither listen nor speak;
Who do not drink their tea, though they always
said
Tea was such a comfort.

Run down into the cellar and bring up the last jar
of raspberries; they are not tempted.
Flatter them, ask them what was it they said
exactly
That time, to the bishop, or the overseer, or to Mrs. Mason;
They are not taken in.
Shout at them, get red in the face, rise,
Drag them out of their chairs by their stiff
shoulders and shake them and yell at them;
They are not startled, they are not even embarrassed; they slide back into their chairs.

Your tea is cold now.
You drink it standing up,
And leave the house.

(My Aunt Margaret was a "Mrs. Mason")

kat