By:
On:
With: 0 Comments

Making Circles in Darkness

on the loss of my mother

Sometimes going through the motions
is enough; it’s almost like living.

Sometimes it’s too much effort
to cross the room for heat,
so I watch the snow fall through
the cracked window,
the layers building up
of snow and blankets
as warmth slips out
through the opening.

I’m drunk on my own grief,
and my hand makes lazy circles
in the air to amuse me.
Life doesn’t mean anything;
it never did.

Sometimes there exists in me
a tempest that cannot be contained.
I rebuild and shift things,
furiously dig through the snow
and in the soil,
looking for a place to deposit
the excess energy
and the memories.

Life clings, meaningless
and important.

One day I will forget to feel the pain,
I’ll laugh without stopping myself
and I’ll let the flowers bloom
without shutting myself away
where I cannot see them.

The lazy circles amuse me;
I’m an infant again,
motherless and cold.
Each day feels different,
experienced in ways
I always feared.

I wonder how I’ll remember joy
when it tries to come back in,
and I wonder if I’ll want it
after the years I’ve spent in darkness.

Life clings, heavy
and beautiful.

Notes

Written 7 February 2020 in Payne County, Oklahoma.

Brian Fuchs, “Making Circles in Darkness” from Scissor-tailed Flycatcher (Scissortail Press, 2020)

By:
On:
With: 0 Comments

The Rain

I’m still waiting outside for rain,
hoping for sudden downpours from cloudless skies.
I’m wondering if she’ll join me when the first drops
start to fall and the birds fall silent.
She’s been delayed, I’ve told myself again,
or the rain hasn’t been enough.
It has never been enough
I’ve summoned more and more rain,
for over a year I’ve coaxed it from the air,
the ground sometimes swelling, saturated and marshy.

Brush Creek has filled to overflowing,
washing out parts of the road and clearing out
the debris of our distractions.
It has not been enough.
The Cimarron & Arkansas Rivers have been flooded,
swallowing homes and memories,
lives lost and inconvenienced.
Still she has not arrived.
I continue my incantations, calling for more clouds,
more rain — great hurricanes that try to find me,
creeping along the coasts, tied to the oceans.
Florida, Georgia, Louisiana, The Bahamas, Puerto Rico,
they may all need to be sacrificed in my efforts,
and it will be worth the loss because I will
no longer feel like I am alone.
I am listening for those first signs, the drips on the tin roof
and I am ready to throw open the windows,
clench my fists, and try to push my dreams into reality.
I know she will join me if I keep trying,
and we will sit together on the covered porch,
resuming what should still be.

Notes

Written 5 September 2019 in Payne County, Oklahoma.

Brian Fuchs, “The Rain” from Okie Dokie (Scissortail Press, 2019)Continue Reading

By:
On:
With: 0 Comments

Cercis canadensis

for Dad

When we had tried
putting ourselves together again
we’d used the wrong parts,
made effigies of ourselves
with the piles of distorted junk,
left behind scraps of a once-full life.
We went through the motions of people
spoke like them, practicing their accents,
but did not understand our own words.
We got the phrases wrong,
the tones, the memories.
Periodically, we’d erupt into full color
flowers growing from every part
and our days seemed alive with joy.
But we would catch ourselves lost in time,
eyes fixed on a long-abandoned walker,
a long-absent bed,
a long-neglected garden,
at the things we find so important now
and the flowers would fall from our bodies.
I gave up on trying to find the parts
of myself I missed most,
stopped looking for who I had been before. I’ve been more comfortable with discomfort,
waiting for others to finally leave the safety
of their beds, the safety of their tears.
And we’ve started to share ourselves again,
imagining Spring, redbuds flushed fuchsia,
grief removed from our shoulders,
sadness washed from our faces
by the showers of April and storms of May.
We will remember how to be happy
and how to be sad and how to be,
and we’ll see the long-forgotten remnants
and we will understand who we are.

Notes

Written 19 April 2019 in Payne County, Oklahoma. Rewritten 5 September 2019 in Payne County, Oklahoma.

Brian Fuchs, “Cercis canadensis” from Okie Dokie (Scissortail Press, 2019)Continue Reading

By:
On:
With: 0 Comments

Luctus Herbarium

I’m counting the blooms,
tagging and cataloguing each one,
memorializing the specimens in photos.
I’m waiting for patterns,
counting petals and leaves to make sense of the passing months.
Routines form in my distractions, order.
This must be a sign.
On hot days like this, I sit in the heat,
water hose set to mist.
I watch the tiny drops of water float by,
dancing in the shifting breeze
while I clutch the trigger tightly.
I switch the settings,
long streams shoot into the sky,
pattering like hard rain on the metal roof of the porch.
I pulse the trigger,
tight, loose, tight, loose.
I’m wet from the water dripping down my arm,
and by the drifts of mist.
The hot sun dries my clothes,
nozzle retired to the floor of the porch.
Thoreau wanted to live simply and deliberately,
to test himself against nature,
to love it, to record it, tame it or be tamed by it.
I just want to get through the day,
to bury my head in my collection of information.
I can’t index my life in values and harvests;
my gardens are not for sale,
nor are they planted with very useful.
Maybe they should be.
Maybe they should be.
Maybe…
Soon I’m returning to my work,
counting the dead blooms as I prune
and noting which ones wilted first.
So many flowers remain beautiful without petals;
that seems important enough to note, so I do.
I’m still slightly damp,
enough to forget about Mom’s absence,
but she is even more present
in the sorted flora, the journals of growth,
in the fountains of sun-warmed water.

26 August 2018

Written 26 August 2018 in Payne County, Oklahoma.
Brian Fuchs, “Luctus Herbarium” from Scissor-tailed Flycatcher (Scissortail Press, 2020)

By:
On:
With: 0 Comments

This has been a trying week.  I’ve really felt like I’ve been stuck in slow motion while everything speeds by around me.  I’m tired; I’ve spent the majority of time in bed this week.  I’m not ready for real life, but it keeps popping up because it doesn’t seem to care if I’m ready or not.  Mom wanted me to be successful.  I think she believed I could be even more than I did, so when I have been awake this week I’ve been charging ahead with my blog and social media.  I have a lot of plans for the blog, for my work, and for my home.  I don’t want to stop planning my life, even if I do find everything rather pointless right now.

I hope this upcoming week is a little better.  I have some projects that should prove therapeutic, and should I get to them I will discuss it in next week’s review.  I’m trying to not put too much pressure on myself, so I easily could have another week of sleeping.  This is hard.  It’s actually much harder than I expected, and I expected it to be rough.  I need time.  I need a lot of time, and I hope I don’t bore anyone by taking my time.Continue Reading

By:
On:
With: 0 Comments

A few weeks ago, I was listening to music after spending the night helping my mom in and out of bed as she recovered from a collapsed lung.  I hadn’t left her house yet, and she came into the living room to join me.  We didn’t talk; we just sat and listened to the music as the sun came up over the trees and filled the living room with light.  It was a peaceful moment.  We talked briefly after a while, and then I went home to sleep before coming back the next night.  She stayed in the living room for the morning, watching TV and visiting with my dad.  If I had known then that it was the last time I would spend time with her in her living room, I would have stayed all day.

My days are like that right now.  Everything is about Mom.  The roses she and I ordered came in yesterday, a week and a half after she passed.  On her desk sit the art project she was working on, four 6×6 canvases featuring her with her grandkids.  On her doors hang the wreaths she had ordered for summer; they arrived the week she went to the ER, one being only taken out of its box when we were getting the house ready for visitors.  I’ve caught family members talking about the pain she was in, which she was.  I’ve heard them hint at how she seemed to have lost some of her spirit, which she had.  But I don’t want anyone to think for a moment that she had ever given up on living.  Nobody loved life more than she did.

Mom’s life had become about pain and struggling through the many surgeries she had over the past ten years.  I’ve lost count; she had lost count.  But never did a surgery keep her down.  She fought through it because she did not want to be an ‘old person’ and never meant to end up spending so much of her life in bed recovering.  These recoveries were temporary, and she spent her time either getting ready to fight after a surgery or working on getting back to her life.  Being stuck in bed made her feel left out at times, and it was frustrating for her to not be able to join her sister, friends, and other family on various outings and vacations.  She wished she could go to church every Sunday, as her church family was so much a part of who she had always been.  She wanted to be healthy enough to stay with her granddaughters more often, but did not have the ability lately.  But most people didn’t know any of these feelings.  Mom did not complain about her plight to people.  She didn’t want others to ever feel bad for enjoying their own lives, even if she couldn’t be a part of it.

ER visits had become so routine, so when she was rushed to the hospital on May 18 it didn’t even phase me.  I thought to myself that I hoped she stayed through the weekend; the stays in the hospital were often good for her and gave me peace of mind that someone was checking her out.  I also felt relieved that I would get a little extra sleep over the weekend.  Then they called me from the hospital to say she was being transferred to Oklahoma City.  Dad didn’t seem to remember what the doctors had told him, and Mom and I shouted at one another through his speaker.  She told me it was her colon and they needed to do surgery.  I have no idea what I said to her, but it was definitely not the right thing.  There is no way it could have been.  It was the last time we would talk to one another.  How could I have known, and what words would we have used.  She was aware the next day as she slipped from up, and could nod/shake her head.  I was able to talk to her then, but it wasn’t a conversation.

This doesn’t feel real.  I’ve passed the part when I think I might finally wake up, but now I keep thinking she will come home from a trip she’s been on.  But at the same time, I’m empty.  My whole world has been consumed by this growing emptiness, and mostly life seems pointless.  It’s raw of course, but it is hard to see what meaning I’ll be able to find in life.

I’m babbling.

I’ve been spending a lot of time on my front porch, listening to birds in the morning and watching fireflies in the evenings.  The birds don’t seem to know that the color has gone from the world.  The fireflies still light up the night, even though life is so fleeting.  I’m not sure what to think about it all, or even if I’m thinking about anything at all.  Every time I start slipping into despair, it starts to rain and I can’t help but find joy in storms.  Joy seems inappropriate.  I have moments when I laugh or smile and think to myself that I’m being disrespectful.  That’s such a backward thought.  Mom loved life, saw the good it it always, and wouldn’t want anyone to despair.

This was not a part of my plan.  I never imagined I would lose my mom in my 30s;  it feels stupid.  I was ready to watch movies with her, to laugh with her, and to enjoy the nature around us with her well into my 60s.  I deserved that.  She deserved that.  And now I have to figure out what I’m going to do with my life.

Mom’s final moments were spent surrounded by family.  She understood what was happening, and knew she was not going to make it.  It was so sudden, so the fact that everyone could get there was a miracle.  We cried, we sang songs, we prayed.  The room was so filled with love and life, I cannot think of a more fitting situation for her to passing.  We were singing I Can Only Imagine though our tears when the nurse came in and nodded her head.  I felt like I had been shot in the stomach and we continued on.  Brent and Dad were each holding her hands and they felt her relax and slip away.  Sobbing followed, and family trickled out to the waiting room.  I sat in the chair in the corner of the room and wanted to stay there forever.  Once everything had been gathered, my brother and I finally left the room, leaving her by herself.  It made me numb.  It’s typically not fair to a person to remember that person for one day in their life.  People tend to dwell on a person’s death and not on their life.  I’m sure I’ll do that for a while, but if I’m going to have to focus on her last day, I will at least have those beautiful final moments to focus on.

It’s true: Mom won’t be in pain anymore.  She didn’t want to give up on life, but she doesn’t have to fight through so much pain.  That’s going to comfort me one day, but today is not that day.

This weekend, my nephew Conner and I will plant the roses Mom and I had picked out.  And I’ll makes sure they are planted where she wanted them.  And I will just try my best to get from one day to the next.  I’m going to be sad for a long time, but there are things to be done.

SaveSave

SaveSave

By:
On:
With: 0 Comments

LaDonna Marie Fuchs

On May 19, 2018, LaDonna Marie Fuchs finished her work here on Earth.  She had done what she needed to do, and in spite of protests by her loved ones, it was time for her to accept her reward and move on to the next life.

LaDonna was born October 18, 1953 in Champaign, Illinois to Billy & Christine Tucker.  She grew up in Stillwater, Oklahoma with her sister Ann and brother Stan.  She graduated from Stillwater High School in 1971 and received her Bachelors degree in Early Childhood Education from Oklahoma State University.  She was a member of the Stillwater Church of Christ.  It was there that she added chosen family members Dale & Mary Combs, whose children David and Mark would be added to LaDonna’s life as brothers.

LaDonna fell in love with Curtis Fuchs in 1977, and the two of them married August 20 of that year.  They had three children:  Brent in 1978, Brian in 1979, and Bradley in 1981.  Each of them can confirm that LaDonna was the best mom anyone could have.  Her incredible love of life, of God, and of children made for a warm and happy home, which they made in Stillwater.

LaDonna’s love of children eventually became too much for just her own, and she and Curtis started Rainbow Preschool at Stillwater Church of Christ in 1982.  It was open until 2007.  There, LaDonna showed her incredible skills at teaching and guiding children.

In 2001, LaDonna started her role as Nana, a position that filled her heart with more joy than she knew she could have.  Conner, KC, Jason, and Avery made her life even more beautiful, and she thanked God everyday for allowing her to be their Nana.  People, especially children, were her ministry.  She even took on the role of second Mom to Justin & Simona, and Nana to Abby because there was no limit to her love.  And her home was open to countless people, whose happiness and comfort was her greatest concern.

She was preceded in death by her parents Billy & Christine Tucker of Stillwater, OK; niece Rechelle Bystedt of Anchorage, AK; as well as close family friends Dale & Mary Combs of Broken Arrow, OK.  She is survived by her husband of 41 years, Curtis Fuchs; sons Brent Fuchs of Edmond, OK, Brian Fuchs of Glencoe, OK & Bradley Fuchs of Stillwater, OK; her grandkids Conner, KC, Jason & Avery: sister Ann Wilkinson (Ron) of Tulsa, OK; brother Stan Tucker (Michael McDermott) of Fort Worth, TX; chosen brother David Combs (Lisa) of Broken Arrow, OK; chosen brother Mark Combs (Krista) of San Antonio, TX; sister-in-law Rita Wilson (Jerry) of Anchorage, AK; nieces Rebecca Stone (Luke) of Flower Mound, TX & Annie Tucker (Adam Ampaipitakwong) of Dallas, TX; Denise Rogers (Matt) of Chugiak, AK; nephews Mark Wilkinson of Georgetown, Kentucky; Matt Wilkinson (Cheryl) of Bixby, OK; & Christian “Opie” Tucker (Laura) of Waco, TX; Les Wilson (Kim) of St. Louis, MO; and other family members Emily Combs (and son Levi) of Broken Arrow, OK; Justin Ward of Glencoe, OK; Abby Dye of Perkins, OK; and dog Chip.  She also leaves behind countless friends who meant the world to her.

Services will be at Stillwater Church of Christ on Sunday, May 27, 2018, 2:00 p.m.  LaDonna will be laid to rest at Sunset Memorial Gardens in Stillwater, OK.

(Obituary written by me.  Pictures are from the handout I created for the funeral.  The missing page has the obituary printed on it.)