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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 find peace, will not heal until all beings 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 a path of its own.
Stand apart from what you think you know.
Let go, dear one.
Your beloved awaits.
Run to him.
Death is a wilderness.
And we cannot pack as for a camping trip:
Proper provisions, water, bug, and bear spray.
Life prepares us to gradually let go.
When we feel safe, at home in our skin.
May it be so.
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