Blog | Pat Durmon, Poet

If You Died First, What Would You Want Me to Do?

Jimmy, my husband, actually posed this question in the truck. I laughed and changed the topic. I could not deal with it at the time. Later, I wrote this letter. (I kept it private and did not share it with him for three weeks.) Dear husband, If I died first, what would I want you to do? After you grieve a few months—maybe even a year—then you need to pull it together and get on with the program. If you wish, give some of my things away, things I loved in this world but no longer need. Sister Bonita can have the cross I displayed by the front door. It’s ornate and a little fancy. She will appreciate how the wall shines through. In fact, her walls will show it off better than mine. And she kno

Hurricane Florence

I’ve written two blogs this week. Actually, I’ve been trying to not write this one. But it kept tugging at me like a little kid, wanting a mother’s attention. I’m in Arkansas, three states away from Raleigh, North Carolina, where my son and grandgirl live. I’m living my life, marking things off the calendar, feeding dogs, going to the grocery store, checking the mail, and tending to whatever else comes my way. Hurricane Florence has been an undercurrent all week. I’ve been watching her via the computer since Tuesday, when she was doing her ballet spins in the Atlantic Ocean and approaching the U.S. It was the biggest hurricane I could remember. 500 miles wide, category four - and forecasters

Strange Things

Hard to label it. People are leaving. A friend’s son died, a friend’s husband died, a friend is moving away. It is the normal cycle, but it brings up strange feelings. I try to hold people loosely. It gives me better perspective when I can do that. (As a counselor, it proved very helpful.) When it comes to family or close ones, it is right there in my throat anyway. Every time. Hard to hold loosely. Always, I feel the pain, theirs and mine. My boys are all grown up and living their own lives. Just as it should be. Just as I want it to be. But still, this invisible mother-thing grabs hold. Family. Whoa. Those are the people who can delight you or hurt you. Some of you probably know about that

Thinking About Laborers

What space does Labor Day occupy with you? My family has always been heavy with blue collar workers. Have I always been grateful for who they are and what they did? No. When I thought “Labor Day,” a late summer holiday is what first came to mind. I remembered notebooks, pencils, and school buses. It was just that time of year. But it’s far more than that. On Labor Day, I still think hot dogs and chips. What comes later is remembering I am honoring the workers of America. Workers who labor in shops, in fields beyond tin roofs, in factories, office buildings, restaurants, and all the other places. Working men. Working women. Since Adam, mankind has suffered and labored. I look out the window a

The Heart of the Educational System

It's a Sure Sign

Heroes

If You Died First, What Would You Want Me to Do?

Hurricane Florence

Strange Things

Thinking About Laborers