Death

Her scent arrived first. Francis Denney’s Interlude. Delicate at the start, then coming to rest like a swaddle, a heavy musky balm, felt more than smelled.   

Next a tender clinking sound. Seashells? Wind chimes? No. Broken and mismatched rosary beads, dangling from wrists and waist. 

She bustled in with a casserole of course. Chicken and rice. And two old fashioneds, orange wedges and maraschinos on their colorful plastic skewers. (Sigh.) And she brought all of the pieces of self, abandoned or chased out over the years, carefully drawing each from her deep pockets, tetrusing them back into place without effort or regret. Wholeness renewed. 

Skipping along 5th Avenue, avoiding the cracks to preserve the mothers’ backs, singsonging stories of early years and … surprise!! Annie and Mama sitting on the front porch swing! Pure JOY! 

Eyes bright, smiles wide, laughs big and bellied. 

Ooooh… now to Seymour, wearing suits, no sunscreen. Floating on backs, squinting at the sun, waiting on sandy beach towels an hour after packed bologna sandwiches. Turning brown and being. Just being. 

Then a diary of moments flickering like fuzzy temperamental filmstrips, one after the next: proud uniforms, clouds in blue skies, grins on the steps of a church, babies and baby, jumping rope, Plinko chips zigzagging, a vision between mountains. No perceptible order, just shoulder to shoulder loss and hilarity, rage and gentleness, beauty and confusion, worry and love.

Love.

So much love. 

And now, it’s time. Releasing layer by layer, breath by slowing breath, continuing a lifetime of letting go – of culture, of dreams, of expectations, of convention, of religion, of structure, of parameters of mind.

Passing into and through. 

Written for my mom who died September 2020. This writing was inspired by If Death Were a Woman by Ellen Kort.