Theresa Gonnella February 29, 1928 - April 20, 2017
Joseph Anthony Gonnella October 17, 1926 - October 11, 1962
Theresa Gonnella Memorial Service June 24, 2017
Benediction.………………………..Msgr. Ronald Bacovin Four Poems for Joseph Anthony Gonnella……...………….…Joe Gonnella Four Poems for Theresa Frances Gonnella……….…….……..Joe Gonnella Concluding Prayers………………..Msgr. Ronald Bacovin
Theresa Gonnella 1928-2017
Theresa Gonnella of The Gables of Princeton Junction died Thursday, April 20 at age 89 surrounded by her loving family. After thirteen happy years of marriage, Theresa lost her beloved husband, Joseph Anthony Gonnella, in 1962. She is survived by her son, Joseph Gonnella, and his wife, Allegra D'Adamo, of Princeton Junction; her daughter, Janice Weichman, and her husband, Peter Weichman, of Bedford, Massachusetts; and four cherished grandchildren, Christopher Gonnella, Joseph Gonnella, Benjamin Weichman, and Marissa Weichman. Theresa was born, raised, and educated in Brooklyn, New York. Working at the New York Telephone Company, Theresa supported her husband as he completed his studies at the University of Pennsylvania Dental School on the GI Bill. They eventually settled in central New Jersey to open a dental practice and raise a family. Theresa held many diverse positions in the non-profit world over her long life. She was most proud of creating a children's library at St. Paul's Elementary School in Highland Park, New Jersey during the 1960's. Her strength, intellect, and independent nature helped her overcome the adversity of life as a young widow. Theresa's care and love of her family were an inspiration to all who knew her.
On Returning to Where You Started No more is enough— Enough is no more—small Becomes all in withdrawal— Knife invites never— He was is not enough For is to bury in what will come— His eye sees & sees What it can’t be—end Births end—beginning Butchers beginning— He leaves as he entered Altering & altered—
Mortmain Father’s world was never green; its edge was sharp as a knife. I gave no gifts to him though he gives one to me. Juggled eggs can crack and split. Moon can come and go. Whatever dark I think I earn I relinquish to the sea. The weight he disinherits will not bury me. I’m my father’s future; his ransom, my soul’s fee, his past, my only burden— his ghost inhabits me.
For My Father When I ask you why you’ve come, your lips press tight against themselves, your shoulders give a curious shrug, your left hand travels too far from your right. You’ve taken me by surprise too often. You’ve called my name too many times. You’ve held your fist too close to my face. The odor of your death reaches me at breakfast. My friends wear your eyes. Your face appears on the front page of newspapers. Even in the cold harbor of sleep your features sway before me, almost founder. I know the message you bring is more than you can bear. Shall I accept this portion from you, father, my portion, your carefully guarded gift, or will I leave you behind in the shadow I walk out of when I wake? Will I wield your own words against you, will I pull the landscape from under you, or will I mistake you one more time, for who I am?
The Lesson
My father heard the wind that summer night, Saw the moon come up over the wide field Where he had set the telescope and held Me to the eyepiece until, with starlight Burnt through every nerve, I squirmed and cried, There are too many fires in the dark. He did not laugh then but led me in, laid Me down on my good bed, touched my forehead With his hand, whispered me to sleep, I woke To that memory, bright enough to blind, Of stars, clouds of stars and luminous space. When dawn came the sun was a sadder gold Than I recalled. In daylight I thought twice, Said I liked stars but hated being held. He laughed at that and never said a word. When night fell he taught me where the great bear Was, how to find the North Star by the pair, How to test sight like the Indians did. I told him I could see the double star. He never knew I lied. When he was done He brought an egg-crate out, lifted me, left Me to watch the whole sky alone. I kept Staring through that lens at the white half-moon Until he called me in. When I had crept Into my bed, my goodnights said, I could not sleep But leapt to my window where all I learned Waited for me like a dark gift. The deep Night quick with lights that burned and burned and burned.
Walking Along a Street in Philadelphia in Early September These brickwork houses must recall The masons who laid their mortared lines Down so straight there could be no debate About the wall’s worth for those men Who made these houses rise or for the families Who paid each artisan for his labor. I walk the paved-over cobbles of their street Thinking of spirits come & gone who dreamed & built & lived & said goodbye within The edges they owned along the street They chose to come back to every night. I imagine the houses crowded or lived in Alone by those left behind by others. We all wake to the work we are given. We listen to the wind when it whispers. We lay claim to a world unshriven— Forsake the delays we debate— Wrestle—until we’re forgiven— With the burden we were born to deliver.
A Memory In Time of Drought Stand by the waterless course— no need to believe this stream could run dry— but it did. Your voice shapes her where she was— thistles sway to the wind’s will. You are unaccustomed to dust. Some things are refuse; some, commodity; some a measure of a worth we guess at. I remember I saw her, gloved and muddy, knee deep in dark earth poking holes with her forefinger for every single seed.
Hospice
This is the way A spirit opens in Then lets go— The hum-drum drama Of an intended end— Reach for the silence Beyond this speech— Touch the absence underneath— There is a range Beyond the range we know Where each of us will go When the voice Inside our voice Calls us back to where We entered To begin again—
Instructions For Departure I A door is opening before you; its shadow brings no peace. Leap into the arms of its echo; nurture the wanting. You’ll be as courageous as a star, certain in the knowledge of your burning. Share in the fate of leaves and leviathans; dance to the music of your passing. Tame the beast you can’t dismember and make of its terrible visage a mask of repose. Unleash the stillness within you until the fragile void has no choice but to blossom.
II There’s an anger beneath this fear that will flare with each denial. Grasp the brand until the world you can’t enter is extended to the limit of the flame’s bright reach. The room you build will travel with you, serviceable as a snail’s shell. There’s nothing in nature that does not have its reason. Absence will be baptized. Echo will have an answer. Practice the magic. Accept the miracle. Self, death’s chrysalis, engineers no exemptions.
©2017 Joe Gonnella