Poetry is for the Soul...Another Poem

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The Viewing

Carole Shukle

Copyright 1998.

An urgency to see my mother

in death propels

me toward her--a sleepwalker.

I admire the white birch

coffin; its simple elegant

lines so like my mother.

I envision loose skin

draped in folds

over a skeletal frame,

like surplus material

overrunning a table.

I imagine raven hair

turned gray and brittle

and clothes swamping

her now frail body.

I see swirling baby-blue

satin cushioning her eternal bed.

Etched on the lid--a stand

of poplars brings to mind

a walk in the woods.

Nostalgia fills my spirit,

until I remember her sightless

eyes.

Perusing my mother's face,

my fear vanishes like chalk

from a blackboard. My sadness

tempers. Her ebony hair curls

about her cheeks. Her glasses

perch on her nose,

as if she had fallen asleep

reading. Her skin, plum and taut,

evokes a memory of mom

in the kitchen laughing

as she whips up a cake:

a mom of more than eight years

ago, a mom I had almost forgotten.

Her empty stare now hides behind

an expression of peace.

Hesitating, I touch her granite-cold

hand. Her skin is like hardened stone

turned smooth by eons of running water.

Marble statues come to mind.

She is like a Russian egg:

yoke sucked out, a mere work

of art, no essence. I am content

to let her go.

*Published in Wordwrights! Spring, 1999.

My Mom died after being sick for 8 years. She died of complications of Alzheimer's. I am not truly convinced of this. I think she may have been trapped in her body after a series of mini-strokes, but we will never know. My Dad cared for her at home, which nearly killed him. I think I would rather have Alzheimer's and not know anything than to be awake inside my body but unable to communicate. It was a slow progression, but for the last four years she was not much more than a vegetable. She could do nothing for herself. She died in 1984. My mother was the kindest and sweetest of Mothers. I really miss her.

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