Today I opened the large trash bags
from the Upson County Sheriff Dept.
that held your belongings from the day you died.
I touched the parachute straps that held your body,
stained by Georgia red clay and dust,
and, I think, your own blood.
It’s hard to tell because it’s been 10 months,
so red turns to brown and tan,
mixes with dirt ground into the strap,
but the stains are there,
from where you landed, after your freefall
onto the “teeny tiny drop zone” at Skydive Atlanta.
Gently, I touched them, and felt close to you,
your heart beating under those straps,
your joy at flying at 12,000 feet,
joining other divers, doing flips,
your happiness when in the clouds,
seeing the curve of the Earth;
and I cussed out the little white parachute reserve,
so small it looked like a wedding veil,
that didn’t bother to open for you,
that failed you on that day,
and I pulled out your bright blue, perfect helmet,
that wasn’t cracked, didn’t have a flaw,
and I held it to myself, and cried.
Pictures of your dogs flew with you
their faces on the side,
a nine-pointed star decoration,
and a sign that said, ‘TRYING MY BEST!”
I am a person who wants to know it all,
wants to see and touch your things,
kneel at your gravesite,
call out to God in prayer!
feel it all deeply inside, within,
in order to then …………let go,
Fly, fly, my oldest child!
Fly through all the worlds of God,
Walk and talk with ‘Abdu’l-Baha,
fly throughout the universe,
We will do things in your name,
Hold your memory to our hearts,
Paint because you wanted me to,
Do things for you, for you, for you.
💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙
cfblack, 4-25-26
Doctor Grandma 