She used to tell me that when you die, you die alone.Always. There was no alternative. It was just the way it was. For everybody. She said the same thing about birth. Entering and exiting was the loneliest. So, she brought her children up the very same way. On their own. Flying solo from the very start. A very useful education. Preparing us far in advance for the final chapter. But she didn't die alone. She was caressed and cooed to. Serenaded. Shouted at. And, because we did not believe in her dictum, we could not leave her. Could not let her go. We circled her bed like wagons around a bonfire. One after another. And when it was over, we stood over her holding each other, so that in her death, we were not alone.
I listen for the nightingale to resume her song, but I am reluctant on all fronts. To move forward or to stay where I am? If I do nothing, I am filled with dread. If I stray and think of other things, what will become of her?
Now I know she is not the pink peony on my table. The scattered rose petals on the sidewalk. The signs are few. What she really meant was that when she died, we would be alone.
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