Passage #35
To impose some order on death,
I write, I pray, I do not cry.
“Passing” is my euphemism
for all the disorder of heart,
lungs, kidneys, eyes, mind.
Victoria is letting go
of all her organizing skills–
writing letters, making houses.
Linda is here at the end-time.
A Villa Marie Claire sister
prays with us. “It is always true
that an unconscious person hears?”
We hold her hands. Her pulse flutters.
It is over. I think—I want
to go like that.
We step away.
Father Pascal, priest from Ghana,
strides in the hall. Providential.
I last saw him in divorce mode.
“I live here now, a hospice priest
and patient, though it’s not yet my time.”
With bloodshot eyes and weary smile,
he transpires sweat and soul. Guilt
banished. Anxiety dissolved.
I feel the finger of God light
on my shoulder. Sag, droop, submit.
“Vikta, Vicky, Grand Marshall, mom
is rearranging heaven now
giving firm tips to St. Peter.”
Linda’s little joke– good timing.
