I want to be there with the old ones. I want to be there with the old ones when death comes for them. I want to touch their hands. I want to feel the ridges and ripples, whorls and loops of wrinkled skin, I want to follow the fingerprints of time left behind by every person who ever touched their lives. I want to be the final Agnus Dei fading in the curls of their ears as the vast stillness and darkness of death bursts into eternal light with that final breath. I want to feel that sudden lightness of burdens released, of baggage set down, of the self emptying out in a final exhalation. I want to follow the light as it leaves their eyes and rises beyond sight, beyond mountains, beyond stars. I want to follow the light as it becomes eternity in its rising so I will know it when it comes for me.
You hit a nerve with this one, Paul! My 88-year-old mom passed just about this time last year. My siblings and I were with her those last few days, and I feel like I lived your poem. And while difficult, it was a blessing being there with her, holding her old hands, feeling those 'ridges and ripples', experiencing so much of what you noted. Reading it comforted me! Thank you!
Trite as it may sound, it’s a privilege to be close to someone when they leave. Staying with them as you might at an airport waiting with for them to board, for the plane to pull from the gate and watch until it is airborne.