At My Stepmother's Deathbed, Twice
I search for metaphors while she lies there in a coma. Perhaps she is a female Jesus just brought down from the cross. We are the twelve apostles gathered together, preparing to go out into the world and spread her Word. She would have loved that one. Not being a poet herself, she would not have quibbled about the specifics. Simply the mention of her Lord's name would have been enough to keep her happy. I picture her smiling when her eyes suddenly open. Someone must have forgotten to tell her the news that we had all rushed to her bedside expecting her to die. Not for this. This is discomforting. It means we will all have to convene one more time. Such a lack of consideration seems unworthy of her. Her sons prop up her head with pillows. They raise the top half of her hospital bed. A male nurse enters to help out. He asks her what she would like to drink as if he were the executioner in Jacques-Louis David's painting The Death of Socrates. She passes on the hemlock. Instead she asks for a glass of cranberry juice. I sense a slight twitch in the nurse's face. Is it possible he has none? No way he would ask a dying woman to make another choice. When he returns, he helps her to hold the small glass in her hands. She lifts it to her lips. The tiniest possible sip coats her tongue. She opens her mouth and says, "Aaaahhh, that tastes so good." I am taken aback. I realize the most alive person in this room is a terminally ill woman. Never have a few drops of fruit juice tasted so good to her. I call it The Cranberry Moment. In the beginning was the Word of The Cranberry Woman. She who defies death. I am her disciple. I dedicate myself to spreading her message for almost three months until the day arrives when she begins to resemble another David painting: The Death of Marat. Only this time there will be no Cranberry Moment. Loaded up with morphine, barely conscious of this world, she will become nothing more than a suffering human being meeting face- to-face with the massive indifference of the universe. Jimmy Pappas Jimmy Pappas served for the Air Force in Vietnam from 1969 to 1970 as an English language instructor. After his service, Jimmy received a Master's degree in English literature from Rivier University. He is a retired teacher whose poems have been published in many journals, including Yellowchair Review, Shot Glass Journal, Kentucky Review, Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, Off the Coast, Boston Literary Magazine, The Ghazal Page, and War, Literature and the Arts. He is now a member of the executive board of the Poetry Society of New Hampshire.
2 Comments
Sandra
9/16/2016 10:43:07 am
What a poem. I can relate to this so much. I have been meaning to write about my own mother's death four years ago. You have inspired me- reference to that last burst of energy that certain people enjoy before the last goodbye. Thanks!
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9/14/2017 12:19:09 am
Sandra, I was just speaking to my poetry critique group about how good it feels to have someone I don't know respond to one of my poems in a positive way. By an incredible coincidence, I checked out this poem of mine again and read your comment. I am honored that you were inspired by my writing. I hope you get a chance to write down some of your feelings about your mother's death in a poem some day. Feel free to share it with me if you do.
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