WRITING ON THE INSIDE OF MY EYELIDS
Epilogue
This poem was written and read by Jodi at Patrick’s funeral.
JODI'S POEM
How am I to write of one who could dream all my thoughts in a single evening?
You with the grin the size of the chesire cats and that contagious silent laugh.
How am I to write of you?
May I call you a teacher?
You who said you were not here to give me the answers,
but here to help with the questions.
Who told me to never be afraid to be who I am.
You with the mind of a poet, imagination of a child.
May I call you a friend?
For all the words you gave me overflowing with the color that had left your skin.
For how we would sit and paint the world with our words until when I left you it would all seem a touch brighter, it would all seem swollen somehow, full.
May I call you a mentor?
You with the teasing light in your blue bright eyes, and the million anecdotes,
who laughed at me when I was 15 and thought I wasn’t going to university.
You who shook your head and slowly began to plant the seeds,
which now hatched,
have broken my mind wide open.
May I call you an inspiration?
For how you seemed to look back without much regret, always forward, with your joyful smile.
Who came full cycle peacefully, and left gently, without fear.
For how you had always said the way to think was as follows,
"If you get hit by a car,
Hey, be glad it wasn’t a big ol’ bus."
May I call you a lesson?
For each thought you’ve birthed,
For how I’ve learned to live each day better,
To hold each moment a little closer,
Like you always somehow knew to.
May I call you a prayer Patrick?
For the way I’m sending your name up with the questions I’m still collecting for you,
waiting for your voice to rise with these cool winter winds.
Patrick?
May I call you a prayer?
Rebecca’s Speech
Ten year old Rebecca’s love for her Papa "father" was recorded in a speech (originally spoken in French) that she gave in front of her school some months after he died.
Most of the world has a father. They could be 50 or 30 years old, but all fathers are special. My father is very special because he was a writer even with his Multiple Sclerosis. I love and admire my papa. In my story, first I will tell you about MS. Second I will tell you about his stories. Finally I will tell you why I admire and love my papa.
His sickness is called Multiple Sclerosis or MS. It caused him problems with his eyes. My papa was almost blind and could not walk and he visited the hospital alot. Since I was born he was in a wheelchair. We have an elevator in our house. It helped him get around our house.
My father was a writer, he wrote lots of beautiful stories everyone loves. His stories are very funny. My papa's stories were written about a character he called The Great Kazoo. The other characters are Deborah, Susie Derkins and Pat. My papa recorded cassettes full of stories for me. He has also written poems. My mama is trying to get them published.
I love my papa because he is very kind and he drew me lots of incredible drawings. He drew me a drawing of the three little pigs. He did all that when he could still use his hands. With MS he lost the use of his hands. Then he had to use a computer program to record the stories. The computer screen was also special. It was about double the size so he could see the words. But the reason why I love him most is because he did all that despite his illness.
Now you know a little more about my papa's life. When I think about these moments it makes me smile because my papa was an extraordinary person.
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