I should not dare to leave my friend,
Because - because if he should die,
While I was gone - and I - too late -
Should reach the heart that wanted me -
If I should disappoint the eyes
That hunted - hunted - so to see -
And could not bear to shut until
They "noticed" me - they noticed me -
If I should stab the patient faith
So sure I'd come - so sure I'd come -
It listening - listening - went to sleep -
Telling my tardy name -
My heart would wish it broke before -
Since breaking then - since breaking then -
Were useless as next morning's sun
Where midnight frosts - had lain!
This was my favorite Emily Dickinson poem in American Lit. I loved the depth of feeling portrayed by the repetition. I still do. She wrote about Death a lot.
I felt rather like this when I found out my grandmother was dying three weeks ago. I should not dare to leave Grandmae, because - because if she should die while I was gone and I too late should reach the heart that wanted me. I stayed for three weeks, that I might be there when she died. In the end, I wasn't. It is easy for me to want to slip into Emily Dickinson mode, to be overwhelmed by the death and sorrow of life.
A few minutes ago I was writing a letter. A letter to the many who stand behind me, stand with me, and have lifted up my family in prayer. "I said my goodbyes," I told them. I said my goodbyes. My breath caught and I stopped writing. I said my goodbyes. My friend put a hand on my shoulder as the tears started to fall. I closed my eyes and pictured it. I said my goodbyes.
I sat on the edge of her bed and took her hand, soft and fragile, loose skin slowly withering from dehydration. When I was young I would sit on her lap and hold her hand, carefully tracing the soft blue veins that stood in relief from the wrinkles. I marveled at how fragile and beautiful old age made her hands. Her hands had been old and beautiful for a long time. Her soft white hair was straight, lying gently on the pillow. She used to only wear it permed and pinned up. I remember my surprise the first time I saw her hair down. I missed the way she used to take care of her hair so that it would always be proper. The bed was raised so she was half sitting, that her single functioning lung could effectively breathe. She looked at me and I at her. I swallowed hard, willing my voice to be cheerful and the lump in my throat to disappear. It was time. Time for me to go back to Chicago. I had stayed for as long as felt right, but I still didn't want to leave. This was the moment I always dreaded. I wanted to pretend it wasn't happening, pretend it was a normal, lighthearted goodbye. But I also wanted her to know how much I loved her, that I appreciated all the wonderful grandmotherly things she had done for me. I blinked rapidly and smiled.
Don't cry, she had said to me a few days previous. A smile was in her croaking voice and lit her eyes. My face is dry. I'm just watering it, I quipped. The smile touched her lips.
I said my last goodbyes. It finally hit me that she no longer lay in the bed with the white sheets, head elevated, crunching on ice chips. Her graceful, soft, withered hands no longer reached for us or roamed over the sheets, fidgeting. She isn't waiting for me to return. I said my last goodbyes.
I tried hard not to cry. Most of the words came out, but at the end I cracked and crumbled. I love you. She didn't say it back. The lump in her throat must be as large as mine. I leaned in and lifted her arm, and she hugged me back. The first hug she had given me in months. And the last.
The memory faded. I knelt on the floor, crying. Father, if she is indeed rejoicing in heaven with you, could you give me a reassurance of that? It would be less bitter if I knew. I just want to know. Moments passed. "She is alive right now." My friend's voice broke the silence. "Walking and talking." His hand on my shoulder a source of comfort, his words stilled the fears in my heart.
Death is so final.
Last goodbyes echoes in my thoughts.
Except it's not.
She is alive.
