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| A slow-melting glacier. |
The longer I live, the more I know deep in my bones that this world will not heal until all can feel safe and at home. This poem might be about my mother. Or yours.
Death is a Wilderness
I dreamed of my mother last night.
In my dream, she was still beautiful. Strong.
Not the frail old woman she had become.
Caretaking and denial can wear a body down.
My father was the love of her life.
In the dream, we were at a party.
My mother’s hair neatly pulled back. Was that a new dress?
Always good at a party, she smiled politely, making small talk.
Still pretending to have it all together.
Behind her hazel eyes, a terrible truth.
Life is terrible and beautiful.
Fear forms its own path.
Stand apart from what you think you know.
Let go, dear one.
Your beloved awaits.
Run to him.
Death is a wilderness.
But we cannot pack as for a camping trip:
All the right provisions, water, bug, and bear spray.
Life can prepare us to gradually let go.
But only when we’re safe, and at home in our skin.
May it be so.
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