Poetry of Issue #7        Page 25

My Mother’s Death

How many years were you sick
From so many illnesses, I lost count,
Losing everything
That made you, you
One by one
Until finally I gazed upon you
Lying in bed like a beached log
Stiff and hollow,
Your mouth wide open like a primitive totem?
Years ago I mourned the vibrant you,
So who do I mourn now, at your actual death,
Or do I mourn at all? Actually,
I am glad to see your suffering end,
Glad to see the indignities of illness stop.
I mourn what you went through when you were sick
And wish there would have been some way
To cut it short. Would it have been kind--
Would you have agreed--
To assisted suicide?
At what point would you have wanted it?
The moment when you lost the ability to read and understand?
Or when talking grew arduous?
How about when you lost control of your waste,
Creating a scene when we took you out In your wheelchair?
Certainly when the wheelchair became too tiring
And all you could do was lie in bed,
You would have said “enough.”
Or if not, perhaps the diet of puréed food--
The only kind you could keep down--
Could have been the final straw
To make you want to end it all?
Truly, we lost you long ago.
So, back to my question:
What should I do now? Stand, unmoved,
At the side of your tomb? No. No.
I must try to mourn
All your selves, healthy and sick,
And honor each one of them
With different types and degrees of sorrow.
There is so much justice in this.
Almost till the very end,
You lit up when you saw my face
And squeezed my hand and responded to my kiss.
Surely that person,
Sweet and loving in the face of death,
Deserves to be cherished most of all
And bathed in grief.

  Jacqueline Coleman-Fried