The Viewing
Carole Shukle
Copyright 1998.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
______________________________________________________________________
