The Long Waiting
(Inspired by actual Events, July 1, 2003)
So she was finally alone at the last. And nobody in the world to know, to interfere, and I suppose it was like the world itself had not yet been invented. I got thinking standing over her body that had stopped breathing two hours before—this is the finality and the enduring which must be endured, because it is so—at last, is simply part of my lifetime.
I have loved, and even seen loss and grief, but never endured them all at once. I am speaking of inextricable suffering—all of it at once. I could have been happy for her, she looked content, I did say, “Its all right mom, let go.” She was someplace in that hospital room. I could even feel her looking at me, so perhaps she was waiting for me to arrive at the hospital, to hear me say those very words.
“Yes,” I said; she could hear that, “I’ll be alright.” But I wasn’t, and later on down the road of grief, I’d whisper to her “How did you know?” It was as if the earth swallowed her up, and the sun to have come down—this early morning—all the way down from the heavens as if its journey was from the beginning of time, for this one moment in time, and nobody to appreciate it, because she died at 5:00 a.m., sunup (if anything, she got a flicker of it; watching a sunrise or sunset, takes only a flicker of time, and is the most beautiful of all God’s rainbows)—and for thirty-days she remained in the hospital through all her difficulties and waiting and the sun—they got together for only a passing moment—desperate because—for that moment, they were finally alone, and nobody in the world to know, just her and God and daybreak, a very short day for her at best.
‘What does it matter now,’ I thought, at 7:25 a.m., ‘I’m glad she’s finally at peace, I loved you,’ I whispered to my mind—its second-self.
And she said, “Then I’ll go home…”
“No!” I said I had changed my mind, “Not yet.”
She didn’t leave; she could have, worn beyond death, an ear listening to the trumpets calling her and me, oh yes me, my mind going full blast. She was not deaf of course, — perhaps all this was a premeditation, now a premonition (or foreboding, a presentiment of sorts, but less ominous than one might expect)—so noticeable.
My mind babbled on, as if in a shipyard, men working, people sounding. She hadn’t told me yet she was leaving. I held her still warm arm, hand.
At this moment my grief matched my love: I knew it was only a few steps and she’d be home—she was in bed, somewhat propped on a pillow, in loose clothing (likened to a robe), her hair cut short, her eyes closed, the air in her had seeped out of her body, from one end to the other, so it looked …
“I tell you I want you to go home, it will be easier for you to do, so I do say, that (but I didn’t mean that).”
Of course I had to do what was right— to let go.
The sun finally went high into its sky, back up and there was nothing except the sky and the sun and the trees and green grass, her and I and my brother and wife, Rosa, and I said to myself, how all this, after all this waiting—this moment should not be wasted—and us two, her two boys (my brother and I) leaned over her bed, kissed her forehead. I could see under the weight of her closed eyes, tears, though I had only seen her cry once in her lifetime. And perhaps she didn’t even know it was happening.
There was the customary and normal whitening of her tissue (death taking the moisture out of the body—the last movements of ones remains).
‘Don’t worry,’ I said to my mother, near silently, ‘I’m going to let you go even if I don’t mean it. I’m no longer the important one here.”
I couldn’t feel a thing, anything, no heat, cold, nothing, not even the wind when I left the hospital—if it hadn’t been for her, I knew now, I wouldn’t have gotten this far in life. So with that settled, I cried for six-month, straight, sick with depression.
How do you say it—? Two people in all the earth that it is all right for you to die, to let go of us down here; I swear it’s not easy, all I could say—night after night after night was: “Good night, mom,” and I would add, “I loved you,” and I would add to that, “yes, I know your busy with old friends and angels, and the lord,” because he was her first love, but I still wanted to let her know, she might come down to visit us now and then, and so she has.
No: 481 ((9-30-2009) (Dedicated to Elsie)) ••Inspired by actual events
So she was finally alone at the last. And nobody in the world to know, to interfere, and I suppose it was like the world itself had not yet been invented. I got thinking standing over her body that had stopped breathing two hours before—this is the finality and the enduring which must be endured, because it is so—at last, is simply part of my lifetime.
I have loved, and even seen loss and grief, but never endured them all at once. I am speaking of inextricable suffering—all of it at once. I could have been happy for her, she looked content, I did say, “Its all right mom, let go.” She was someplace in that hospital room. I could even feel her looking at me, so perhaps she was waiting for me to arrive at the hospital, to hear me say those very words.
“Yes,” I said; she could hear that, “I’ll be alright.” But I wasn’t, and later on down the road of grief, I’d whisper to her “How did you know?” It was as if the earth swallowed her up, and the sun to have come down—this early morning—all the way down from the heavens as if its journey was from the beginning of time, for this one moment in time, and nobody to appreciate it, because she died at 5:00 a.m., sunup (if anything, she got a flicker of it; watching a sunrise or sunset, takes only a flicker of time, and is the most beautiful of all God’s rainbows)—and for thirty-days she remained in the hospital through all her difficulties and waiting and the sun—they got together for only a passing moment—desperate because—for that moment, they were finally alone, and nobody in the world to know, just her and God and daybreak, a very short day for her at best.
‘What does it matter now,’ I thought, at 7:25 a.m., ‘I’m glad she’s finally at peace, I loved you,’ I whispered to my mind—its second-self.
And she said, “Then I’ll go home…”
“No!” I said I had changed my mind, “Not yet.”
She didn’t leave; she could have, worn beyond death, an ear listening to the trumpets calling her and me, oh yes me, my mind going full blast. She was not deaf of course, — perhaps all this was a premeditation, now a premonition (or foreboding, a presentiment of sorts, but less ominous than one might expect)—so noticeable.
My mind babbled on, as if in a shipyard, men working, people sounding. She hadn’t told me yet she was leaving. I held her still warm arm, hand.
At this moment my grief matched my love: I knew it was only a few steps and she’d be home—she was in bed, somewhat propped on a pillow, in loose clothing (likened to a robe), her hair cut short, her eyes closed, the air in her had seeped out of her body, from one end to the other, so it looked …
“I tell you I want you to go home, it will be easier for you to do, so I do say, that (but I didn’t mean that).”
Of course I had to do what was right— to let go.
The sun finally went high into its sky, back up and there was nothing except the sky and the sun and the trees and green grass, her and I and my brother and wife, Rosa, and I said to myself, how all this, after all this waiting—this moment should not be wasted—and us two, her two boys (my brother and I) leaned over her bed, kissed her forehead. I could see under the weight of her closed eyes, tears, though I had only seen her cry once in her lifetime. And perhaps she didn’t even know it was happening.
There was the customary and normal whitening of her tissue (death taking the moisture out of the body—the last movements of ones remains).
‘Don’t worry,’ I said to my mother, near silently, ‘I’m going to let you go even if I don’t mean it. I’m no longer the important one here.”
I couldn’t feel a thing, anything, no heat, cold, nothing, not even the wind when I left the hospital—if it hadn’t been for her, I knew now, I wouldn’t have gotten this far in life. So with that settled, I cried for six-month, straight, sick with depression.
How do you say it—? Two people in all the earth that it is all right for you to die, to let go of us down here; I swear it’s not easy, all I could say—night after night after night was: “Good night, mom,” and I would add, “I loved you,” and I would add to that, “yes, I know your busy with old friends and angels, and the lord,” because he was her first love, but I still wanted to let her know, she might come down to visit us now and then, and so she has.
No: 481 ((9-30-2009) (Dedicated to Elsie)) ••Inspired by actual events
posted by Dennis and Rosa Siluk at 2:21 PM
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