Grief Paradox: A Prose-Poem
On mourning transitions — grieving my mother
Amidst a mess of hollow tubes, chaotic wires — monochrome machines, arranged for necessity — not for the aesthetic sensibilities which ordered your life — those squat bleeping sentinels, monitoring your drawn-out dying — the technical reproduction of your breath — mere mimesis of life — in — out — in — out —
day by day, you’re doing less of the in — you, fading out …
You, bestower of beauty on thousands of women’s faces, curator of colour-coordinated outfits — impeccably matching belt to handbag to shoes — the flowers on your kitchen table always artfully arranged — how you must have hated the drab disorder of the room of your passing — sighed in distaste, even from the hazy corridor of your coma, languishing just for a little elan —
And so — when you were all out of potential, Mama, you waited for the waxing moon, the dawning segment in potentia of gleaming night-fruit sweetening the sky, like a bite of fresh lychee from the tree in the dark of your mouth— waited for the burst of green buds on the bare branch — waited for the pulsing sharp of grass blades fresh under dull dry mulch —
In the midst of life you were in death
Held … your … breath — until you caught the lilting scent of frangipani on the sea breeze — a window left open by a careless nurse — (remember — the ironic third-floor balcony the ocean views — a cancer ward confusing itself with a four-star hotel — but the room service was terrible). Your final inhale, full of sweet floral notes — like the endless parade of French perfumes on your dressing table.
Then —last act of defiance — you breathed yourself out.
Out beyond the hospital room’s sickly green walls —over the balcony — following the frangipani trail —
drifting, light as pollen, towards the sea.
Robbed so long of speech — you needed your death to be eloquent. Death made you attentive to symbols. Hovering in threshold awareness, in your coma, could you better converse with the seasons, sensing the tender approach of spring equinox — did you seal a pact with the sun, so that when, suspended at mid-point, the sun shifting its favour from one half of earth to the other, you too, lifted from life to death — hovering for a nanosecond inside that bright burning sphere, at the zenith of the sky —
Not content with this beauty of liminal symmetry, you had quietly paced your morphine-numbed corridor, ear to some invisible door of the external world — to the ticking of a bland-faced clock on a hospital wall — waited until the precise fall of the morning’s final second, giving way into afternoon before —
already comatose, you metaphorically closed your mercurial eyes — always moody as a spring sky — were they grey or blue or green when you passed, Mama — your body splayed on a bed, unable to walk or stand — you bid the clocks’ hands stand straight for you, honouring your midday passing.
You were always punctual, and would be, too, in death. The time would be — as your drawers and wardrobe, neat and orderly — on your certificate. I imagine you, bargaining with Death — shaking your head emphatically at the exit-offering of 11:58 am. No. Death, consulting his schedule again. How about 12:01 pm, then? Absolutely not. If you’re taking me, give me a neat curtain call.
In life, we didn’t discuss Plato or existentialism over dinner — yet death has given you depth — made you wax philosophical like a vernal moon — do you hold ghostly intellectual court now with the minds of de Beauvoir and Sartre? In death, you manifest your birth sign — Gemini the twins — uncanny in your symbology — you preside now over ambiguous thresholds, splintered by the wear and tear of conflicting meanings. I will rewrite the funereal litany — Ashes to flower beds — dust to compost —
You’ve been crowned matriarch of paradoxical transitions. Every year, I puzzle over the correct libations. Thirty passings of spring equinox I have weathered — since you took the possibility of a spring untinged with melancholy from me — a spring unstained from death’s darker tonalities — and I wonder how a resurrected Persephone felt — upon the last day of autumn — knowing farewell to her mother Demeter is imminent — hearing the Underworld’s solemn call beneath her feet.
But it’s you who left me for the Underworld. Left your daughter in her maiden phase of life, left her on spring’s threshold, now forever rendered bittersweet.
Left me smelling death in the scent of frangipani — mourning transitions — and always — remembering you.
© Melissa Coffey September 23, 2021 In loving memory of my mother, Kay Denise Coffey (1943–1991) for the 30th anniversary of her passing — on spring equinox (September 23rd — in the southern hemisphere)
In response to the melancholic tristesse in “Early Yellow” by J.D. Harms and his prompt “mourning transitions” (I hope he doesn’t mind my borrowing of that beautiful phrase). While you’re all getting autumnal in the Northern Hemisphere, the Southern Hemisphere shifts into spring — yet because of the timing of my mother’s death anniversary, I am often melancholic in spring — so I’ve reached for that mood.
Follow Melissa Coffey for thoughtful essays and provocative poetry & fiction. Not a Medium member? Join with my referral link to access all my stories & so much more. Find your voice & others you’ll want to hear.
More Prosetry: