In the Land of the Parting
A poem for my mother, struggling with Alzheimer’s
Parting with you is endless.
I wait for the phone call.
Best case:
mischief managed,
escape thwarted,
shower sorted,
new sheets on the old bed,
new socks on tired feet.
I do not fear the “worst case,”
to buy a plane ticket,
plan a funeral.
To rest in peace will be merciful,
you will decide when the time is right.
In the ceaseless today
you try to buy your way
back to Mississippi,
back to a time and place
before the departure of (in sequential order)
your
brother
husband
brother
father
mother
self.
Your mind broke
when each love departed
like an iceberg sloughing off
into freezing waters.
Eventually you cast off living
sons and daughters,
travelled to the land of the parting.
Fragmented memories swirl around you.
Images, not misty as in films,
clear in your mind as the day they occurred.
Maybe moreso, as they are
devoid of hope, expectation, plans,
untainted by ulterior motives,
unclouded by feelings.
Memories are real, pure.
Memories simply are.
In them you are completely present.
In memory, the dead are not dead to you.
They are alive, eager, waiting.
You don’t realize you visit them,
not in the way they desire.
You dip your fingertip, your toe,
into the water of eternity.
The dead wait patiently
open arms, outstretched palms,
for you to take the plunge.
When you wish to abandon
the time-machine machinations
of mortality seeking to grasp infinity
and enter their world completely,
they will be ready and waiting.
Inspired by Anna Rozwadowska’s prompt “Parting” on Dead Poets Live.
