Into White
By: Bela Johnson
Tags: death, life, random thoughts, women
Category: family, musings, personal, poetry, relationships, Uncategorized
I think of her lying in bed alone,
ridged shit-stained fingernails
and the blue bulge of veins under translucent skin;
bony hands curved inward, silently cursing agility
they can no longer manage.
Silk lily of the valley embedded in white porcelain;
a Christmas gift from me,
daughter distant as a morning star.
Gazes at them blankly, even fondly,
appreciating, perhaps, their lack of need
at a time when she cannot caretake;
tending blossoms instead with her eyes.
Flowers that remain open like she never could,
not bending slender alabaster necks
just to wither and drop away;
no reminder of where she, herself is headed.
Angry at memories, pushing them aside,
currying instead morphia’s favor.
Don’t ask me to account for anything,
she seems to say;
Let me close my eyes at last,
into that blank slate of white.
Reblogged this on Ben Naga.
A touching portrait. I hope you don’t mind my reposting it.
Of course I don’t mind! Thanks Ben, as always, for your kind consideration.
This is very well written.
Thank you very much for taking the time to post a comment. Aloha!
Powerful.
Thank you.
I knew this woman. Well, maybe not THIS woman, but…. In a sad way, it was nice to see her again. Wonderfully resonant, makes my grey head worry that the experience is so…uh…ubiquitous.
I believe there are many such elder scenarios, especially in my parents’ generation. My hope is that subsequent generations who have a bit more breadth under their hats, so to speak, will feel and act differently as they leave this precious life – perhaps with more gratitude for what has been and openness to the next adventure. But only time will tell.
I’m not sure my mom’s experience is ubiquitous, but I do believe it is far more common than most admit to. We don’t want to speak ill of our parents; of the elderly or the dying. Yet in the telling, does it diminish the love I felt for her? Not at all. Instead, it simply gives others permission to see more clearly what they didn’t talk about at the time. Such suffering; trucking the very same burdens on their own backs! So sad. And I think this is part of their grief – the unending regret that somehow she didn’t turn out differently, despite their best intentions and efforts. Yet I’m at peace with it. She was who she was – like most of us, far more complex than we’d like to give her credit for. She was an amazingly artistically gifted woman, who, for as long as I can remember, only wanted out of this life and into a ‘better’ one, as her religion so egregiously taught her.
Peace, and thanks for visiting.