The Furious Spinner

Nuthin' beautiful about dying. At least not the way I'm witnessing it. Even though the hospital in The Dalles doesn't look like a "regular" hospital. Even though Mario and I read passages from some of Linda's favorite books to her while she went into and out of sleep. Even while we got in a circle, with Linda as part of it, and did a meditation, taking her out to her favorite place while we touched her, held onto her. Even while the harpist came in and played for her. Even when her daughter seized the day and the love she held for her mother came flowing out of her like water over dry ground. Even when Linda turned her head to the window when she was finally, finally home and saw a dead fly marring the view and softly instructed me on how to get rid of it.

I feel fierce (and often inadequate) in my mission to protect Linda and her daughter from all comers, from all who would interfere with their bond. People want to resolve issues. "Now is not the time." People want to delve into secrets. "It's none of your business." People want to be between. "She's needs her family. She needs her daughter." I look into Linda’s eyes and try to discern what she needs now, trying to understand her barely discernible words. Still her eyes see me and I see her. My fingers touch her forehead while her daughter cleans her nose, and I am certain I have never seen anything as beautiful as this young woman tending to her mother with such clear and present love.

When I stumble home, Mario always opens the door. "Ohhhh," he says. "You look tired." Then he leads me to the kitchen and gives me dinner. Or whatever. He somehow knows when I will be home because somehow there is always food and succor. He watches me while I eat. I see on his face the same I saw on Linda's daughter's face. That softening of love, the beauty of it, the absolute fierceness of it. And later I rest my head on his belly while he reads to me, a quilt wrapped around me, and I know that we only have these moments. And it is these that lend dignity to our life and our death. 0 comments

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