Birth, Death, and The Dream in Between

Some years ago,
on this day,
I was born.

At 5:24 PM,
in room 308
of St. Lawrence Hospital.
(the Bishops room; my first day on earth and I was already benefiting from "connections")
7 pounds,
6 ounces,
as recorded by Dr. Jones, the family's baby doctor.

Although I don't remember the details,
I assume I was covered in blood and gasping for breath
until I received my first violent blow,
and made my first sounds here,
screaming and crying,
longing to return to the warmth, quiet and safety of my mother's womb.


One year ago on this day,
the person I most loved in the world,
whose life had always been so deeply interwoven with my own,
died.

At 11:02 PM,
in room 8
of the Cardiac Intensive Care Center
at Sparrow Hospital.
224 pounds,
less one left leg and a few non-vital organs.

Fireworks were exploding just outside the hospital rooms window,
celebrating the end of a baseball game at the stadium a block away.
Dean Martin was signing "Return to Me"
on the tape deck I had brought in.
I held his hand, stroked and kissed his face
as his life left his body.


My parents were introduced to each other by my mother's cousin, Henry.
Their first date was to the high school basketball state finals
held at Lansing's Johnson Fieldhouse.

Looking out my father's hospital room window,
I could see that building.

Henry was interested in miracles, the occult side of the Catholic church and such.
He awoke one morning about 20 years ago and heard a voice tell him
"Henry, you will die on your birthday."
Henry was born in the spring, in mid April.

He died last year,
alone in his house,
in the fall.