This is not about my heart

By A.E. Bayne

This is not about my heart.
This is not about the chunks that are missing;
It is about mending the unbearable bits of life.

This is not about sex, not about the animal;
It is about what is needed each day.

This is not about rhyme or reason,
rather simple truth, yours
and mine.

This is about the infinite power of giving.

This is about listening and feeling,
about making each day new.

Whatever we make it, whatever happens in the meantime,
Each day it is about love.

Miss America is Back in the Old Dominion

By A.E. Bayne

First, Virginia:
Virginia explained that losing is hard if you become lost in the doing.
Three months she did travel with me,
a glittering grin, shiny red face,
she graduated from far America, Lincoln.
Your questions were jewels as the cheering captured her head,
the mansion queen with her right possibilities.
Your questions were jewels because journeys are best midst life's pageant.
For days we expected to find out that June beats January -
Absolutely, America.

Happy St. Paddy's Day, Dad

So, most people commemorate St. Patrick's Day for its festivities and spirit of friendship and community. I, however, will always hold remembrance of the day because it was the day my father was buried in 2000. On that day I gave my father's eulogy, which I came across while cleaning recently. On this tenth anniversary of his funeral, I thought it would be fitting to eulogize him once more:

My dad and I had a few chances to talk together during the past couple of weeks. During one conversation, he asked me what he had given me in life. Here's what told him:

Both you and Mom have helped to define who I am today. You've been wonderful examples for me. Your faith has given me the courage to believe and pursue my own path; especially your faith, Dad, because your beliefs are unwavering. Yet, even with your strong commitment, you allowed me to find my way, you listened to my questions, and were always willing to discuss my views and give them credence. Mom continues this commitment to her faith by living her beliefs as well.

As parents, you both taught me about unconditional love, especially over the past four years. I have watched as Mom has walked every step of the way with you; you have truly complemented each other as partners. When I think of the kind of love I want in my life from a partner, I think of your partnership with Mom and the love you've extended to me over the years. I realize this is a high standard to place upon people, but you taught me to have those high standards. You taught me to surround myself with quality people, and there are not too many of higher quality than you, Dad.


The funeral pamphlet I designed for my father



I would like to read a poem for you that I believe expresses how much our relationship as a collective family meant to my father, as well as to us:

We have gathered over years
A family.
We have wound tight threads around each other.
We have whispered ourselves into your patient ear,
Your brothers, sisters, cousins, wife, mother, father, and children.
You have undone us with your attentiveness.
You have made us greater, kinder, braver, exceptional people.
You have given us a rhythm that dances in our blood.

~A.E. Bayne

Please carry my Dad's love and friendship always in your hearts. Thank you all for joining us today in celebration of his life.

Happy St. Paddy's, Dad! I love and miss ya, old fella. I can't believe it's been 10 years.

My father's obituary

My Father's Hands...from 2008

By A.E. Bayne

This is a piece that I published about my father a couple of years ago. Today is the 10th anniversary of his death. When people tell you that you will miss someone less as the years go by after their death, they lie.

My father's hands were not oafish, but they were callused to some degree because he worked with tools around the house on the weekends. He had large arthritic looking knuckles, but I don't think he had arthritis in his hands. They felt like sandpaper sometimes, but he had small, short nails which he cleaned with a file. He was impeccably tidy and groomed. Looking back, I have no idea how he was able to stay so neat and clean, almost fastidiously so.



My father's hands were crafty. He built wooden shelves, decks, bookcases, used measuring tools, and painted. He was a mathematician who always wanted to study architecture, but never did. He loved to mow the grass, use his hands in the dirt, and fix machines. He was a handy-man at heart.

His hands were not the type to caress. I can't speak for my mother, but I have the feeling she'd say the same. Instead, I'd receive a strong, reassuring pat/hug when times called for such emotive gestures. His hands were very protective, very solid. I always felt sheltered in the nook of his arm.

When it first happened, when those hands were no longer giving me hugs and pats, I did not cry. After propping him up during a morphine induced struggle for breath at home, after the ambulance came and left with the "do not resuscitate" order, after my hands tightened around his in the hospital and I sang him toward death, it felt like he was merely on a trip, a vacation. A year or two into it, when my mind wrapped itself around the fact that he wasn't ever coming back, the tears fell hot and constant in his absence. Even after eight years I miss him every day. I wonder if the memories will always make me feel as if my body wants to turn itself inside out with grief. My heart breaks, it literally stops and tightens in my chest, and there is no suppressing the tears as long as my thoughts are on him.



It is the deepest cut, to sever the ties of life with death. Even more than my failed marriage, which brought its own feelings of loss, the death of my father utterly destroys me. He left me a compass for sure, but I ache for the steady hands that guided me.

The Dream Machine

Dreams can make you question your sanity.

Take this dream, for instance, that woke me up at 2:39 A.M. in a fit of maniacal laughter. I was a couple. A couple of what, you ask? No, I mean I was a married couple, played by Jennifer Aniston and that tall, bumbling guy from How I Met Your Mother, Marshall (Jason Segel). I guess that's where the yen and yang of the subconscious mind comes in, because I wouldn't mind looking like Jennifer Aniston, but I don't want to be Jason Segel. Anyway, I am this couple, and I / we are visiting an island paradise on recommendation from a friend. I / we are excited about having our first child and are playing in some lightly tumbling rapids.

Suddenly, the scene zips to an ice room and I / we are on ice skates. I am primarily Jen in this scene. The ice room is very eerie and as cold as liquid nitrogen if you touch its surface; but it was the setting for a famous National Geographic photo shoot and I / Jen want to replicate the professional photo with my cell phone camera (like that's going to work!) The subject of the photo shoot was as set of hanging white ceramic pots in the corner of the room, so I / Jen wobbly skate toward the pots to catch the shot. Jason / himself stands by the door which, consequently, opens onto a lit display case filled with S&M toys and two naked manikins. I /Jen am having a hard time maneuvering on the skates, and I / Jen end up falling onto the ice. As I / myself typed earlier, the ice is as cold as liquid nitrogen, and it burns my hands as I / Jen fumble around to get onto my skates. The scene progresses this way for some time, I / Jen fall and burn myself, the ice cracks and refreezes each time, the whole things is terrifying. Jason / himself and I / Jen both know we are in great peril. I / Jen get the shot and I / we book it out of there.

Zip, zap, pow, we are frolicking in the waterfall again. This time I / we are seriously talking about building a house on the waterfall. I / we look at a flat, smooth rock with water gently bubbling over it and decide it is the perfect spot for the baby's crib (remember the baby?). Just then, I / we are bombarded with large boulders and chunks of ice crashing down the waterfall. I / we scramble out of the way and begin laughing at our luck...maniacally laughing, just as I / myself was when I / myself floated up out of the dream.

What a strange sensation to laugh yourself out of a dream. You are in two worlds at once: still under the influence of the subconscious, but aware of your bedroom, the fact that it’s too early to wake up, and feeling like your mind is being pulled through your guffawing mouth with each cackle.

Oh, I also had a dream that my teeth absorbed a piece of nasty, cherry flavored gum. When I looked inside, my teeth were full of cavernous holes. It was disturbing.