Quiet Epilogue

I have been trying to write something for days. The thoughts that went through my head I simply couldn’t put in writing. And there were many and different and ranged from the anecdotes to the macabre. And I didn’t want to paint things in a false light. Still, I had to write something.

What then?

I could write about the cycle of life. How, sometimes, people grow a disease for a long time, for months, like other people grow babies in their bellies. I could write how, sometimes, you hold someone’s hand, waiting for the end. Each breath and each movement resembling the labour of a mother bringing a child into this world; only this is not the labour of life, it is the labour of death. The closer the end is, the more you see the reversal of life. From telling old tales for the umpteenth time to smiling when asked to do so, to staring into someone’s eyes, the way a baby does. “Do you understand what I’m saying? What are your thoughts? Are you confused? Are you ok?”

I could write about people that live their lives quietly and die their deaths quietly. People who, when asked in their final moments “how are you doing?”, reply “I’m fine”. And when poked with needles and their blood is drawn they say “Thank you, son. Bless you”.

Or I could write about how being quiet does not equate being without effect. How some people may not have gone around the world, but they carried six children who carried other children who made families and friends, who were all there to say goodbye. How some people do not need to shout their presence to the world.

I could even write through the eyes of the observing soul, if such a thing exists. Describe the pride of watching the family tree, still growing with strong branches, with laughter around the dining table, with hugs and kisses, with memories and future. Or conclude that “the story about the mother and her four children… well, my daughters are all bees” and smile.

I even thought of writing about the time a black-humour comment slipped right out of my mouth at an inappropriate time. Everyone looked at me like I had said something really wrong… but her. She laughed instead.

I could write about these and more. Instead, I will write this.

She died on Monday 18 December 2006, at 10:15 am. We said the last goodbye on Tuesday, under the red December sun.

~ by chaoticmine on December 21, 2006.