In the end, after everything she ever went through
Jean Heath's home was filled with people
Who claimed to know her better than they actually did
They swapped their tissues and embellished stories
To appear closer to Jean Heath than they actually were
In the same way wearing expensive clothes on Sunday
Apparеntly, brings wealthy Baptists closer to God
Than they actually arе.
They were mostly unfamiliar faces
Who seemed to be looking for due credit
On the role they may or may not have played
In the life of Jean Heath
Networking their sorrow and searching
Like they always do, in every death,
For the gate to restoration
As if this life wants us to stay here
They took turns crying over Jean Heath's face
As a sign that she would be missed
There was so much crying that I, the caretaker,
Could hear Jean Heath's bedsheets slap together when she moved
And there was food, y'all
Smoked ham
There was so much food
Like an acre of it
Across the kitchen counter tops
And over the tables
Falling out of the refrigerator
And along the arms of chairs
There were cups with names written on them
Sometimes twice
Sometimes two cups
Kids lose shit.
There was ambrosia with snot on it
Cornbread with tears in it
Black-eyed peas with a trembling ladle
Strawberry-rhubarbed-wired pie
Melty vanilla ice cream pulp
And there were perfect, middle squares in the brownie pan
I know who ate the end pieces
The little ones were warned
Death is a very serious matter
So, they had better not act up
Or they would be forced to pick their own switch
And get whipped with it
We were tricked into fearing the ways
We would leave this planet
Emily Beeswell was 26 years old that day
When she came to play piano for her best friend
Jean Heath, age 87
Who lay flat in velvet on her deathbed
Looking like the front pew of a gospel church
Without the guilt.
When the other guests asked Emily
How she knew Jean
Emily thought of Jean's lonely days on the porch
When no one came to visit
When the money ran out
When the yearning for love haunted her
Taught her how heavy the hollows are
How crippled the memory can make ya
How, sometimes, she cries so hard
Her throat blocks out all the noise
"I trust you people,
About as far as I can throw you," Emily said.
"And I can't throw you."
The candles inside her piano keys
Are why Emily's fingertips burn when she plays
It's why she plays like that
It's why she sings like that
Teeth all gripped out like a hallway hallowing
"Holler, holler," she sang.
"I'm going home. It might be a little bit bit
But I'm gonna show 'em.
Might be dirty
Might be skinny like water
But there's a hole in God
And I'm not gonna fall down in there."
And that day, when she played
Sometimes, with her knuckles
Mostly, with her memory
She remembered a true story she read once
In a book about self-acceptance
Where a daughter sits next to her mother in a coma
Until one morning, before dawn,
The mother wakes up, looks very clearly
And very intently at her daughter and says,
"You know, my whole life
I thought there was something wrong with me."
And then she shook her head
As if to say, "What a waste"
Before she slipped back into her coma
And died several hours later
And you knew she would
These stories we give each other,
They're just different reasons for begging you to stay
But no one is going to stay here
Emily knows Jean Heath won't stay
She's cool with that
They both just wish they would have known a little sooner
About this life
That every loss doesn't have to cost so much
Doesn't have to hit so heavy
Doesn't have to get so dirty
Dirty, dirty, like Christ on his little brown mule
I was baptized in tap water
And I never really went to school
I got over you. I got over you.
And you better believe I'm gonna pull through
Jean Heath was tender and bossy
In the moment that she finally called Emily Beeswell
To her bedside
While she was happy that her home smelled like a baked good
And she was thankful for the best of the gestures
From the guests in the bedrooms
And she was wondering about some of their recipes
She was very clear and very intent
When she finally pulled Emily's Beeswell's ear down to her mouth
And said inside of it,
"Get these people out of my house
I've never died before
And I'm gonna enjoy it."
Jean Heath's home was filled with people
Who claimed to know her better than they actually did
They swapped their tissues and embellished stories
To appear closer to Jean Heath than they actually were
In the same way wearing expensive clothes on Sunday
Apparеntly, brings wealthy Baptists closer to God
Than they actually arе.
They were mostly unfamiliar faces
Who seemed to be looking for due credit
On the role they may or may not have played
In the life of Jean Heath
Networking their sorrow and searching
Like they always do, in every death,
For the gate to restoration
As if this life wants us to stay here
They took turns crying over Jean Heath's face
As a sign that she would be missed
There was so much crying that I, the caretaker,
Could hear Jean Heath's bedsheets slap together when she moved
And there was food, y'all
Smoked ham
There was so much food
Like an acre of it
Across the kitchen counter tops
And over the tables
Falling out of the refrigerator
And along the arms of chairs
There were cups with names written on them
Sometimes twice
Sometimes two cups
Kids lose shit.
There was ambrosia with snot on it
Cornbread with tears in it
Black-eyed peas with a trembling ladle
Strawberry-rhubarbed-wired pie
Melty vanilla ice cream pulp
And there were perfect, middle squares in the brownie pan
I know who ate the end pieces
The little ones were warned
Death is a very serious matter
So, they had better not act up
Or they would be forced to pick their own switch
And get whipped with it
We were tricked into fearing the ways
We would leave this planet
Emily Beeswell was 26 years old that day
When she came to play piano for her best friend
Jean Heath, age 87
Who lay flat in velvet on her deathbed
Looking like the front pew of a gospel church
Without the guilt.
When the other guests asked Emily
How she knew Jean
Emily thought of Jean's lonely days on the porch
When no one came to visit
When the money ran out
When the yearning for love haunted her
Taught her how heavy the hollows are
How crippled the memory can make ya
How, sometimes, she cries so hard
Her throat blocks out all the noise
"I trust you people,
About as far as I can throw you," Emily said.
"And I can't throw you."
The candles inside her piano keys
Are why Emily's fingertips burn when she plays
It's why she plays like that
It's why she sings like that
Teeth all gripped out like a hallway hallowing
"Holler, holler," she sang.
"I'm going home. It might be a little bit bit
But I'm gonna show 'em.
Might be dirty
Might be skinny like water
But there's a hole in God
And I'm not gonna fall down in there."
And that day, when she played
Sometimes, with her knuckles
Mostly, with her memory
She remembered a true story she read once
In a book about self-acceptance
Where a daughter sits next to her mother in a coma
Until one morning, before dawn,
The mother wakes up, looks very clearly
And very intently at her daughter and says,
"You know, my whole life
I thought there was something wrong with me."
And then she shook her head
As if to say, "What a waste"
Before she slipped back into her coma
And died several hours later
And you knew she would
These stories we give each other,
They're just different reasons for begging you to stay
But no one is going to stay here
Emily knows Jean Heath won't stay
She's cool with that
They both just wish they would have known a little sooner
About this life
That every loss doesn't have to cost so much
Doesn't have to hit so heavy
Doesn't have to get so dirty
Dirty, dirty, like Christ on his little brown mule
I was baptized in tap water
And I never really went to school
I got over you. I got over you.
And you better believe I'm gonna pull through
Jean Heath was tender and bossy
In the moment that she finally called Emily Beeswell
To her bedside
While she was happy that her home smelled like a baked good
And she was thankful for the best of the gestures
From the guests in the bedrooms
And she was wondering about some of their recipes
She was very clear and very intent
When she finally pulled Emily's Beeswell's ear down to her mouth
And said inside of it,
"Get these people out of my house
I've never died before
And I'm gonna enjoy it."
( Buddy Wakefield )
www.ChordsAZ.com