Twilight

Terri Schiavo died today and her husband and parents continue their long feud. I was writing to M. about the case, mentioning how it boils down to what the individual thinks about euthanasia. Here I am, a GSI teaching writing, getting my students to write arguments but I can't seem to build a strong one for or against euthanasia because I can't decide how I feel about it. My own mother though, told me that she would not wish to be kept living artificially. She wouldn't want to be a burden.

What came of my letter to M. were simply memories of an aunt of mine who had an aneurysm and fell into a coma after a major operation. When her liver failed the night after surgery, her sister and mother decided to take her off the respiratory machine. I didn't think much of it then. I couldn't understand. She was 18; 15 when her own father passed away from heart failure. She was the relative closest to me in age and spirit. I was 13 and by then, I'd attended many funeral wakes and cremations of relatives. I should have been used to it, but I couldn't deal with hers. The two of us had gone through several of these together - my grandmother's, her father's - and I couldn't bear her funeral on my own.

When I turned 19, I couldn't believe that I had gotten older than she had been. Now I am far past 18 and I wonder what her life would have been like had she lived. She might have married the boy who was so broken by her death. They'd been dating secretly and we only met him after she'd been admitted to the hospital. I wonder too what his life is now. Perhaps he's married with children. Does he still remember her? He cried at her death, saying he wanted to go with her.

I am sure only of my thoughts of her. She's still 18 to me, and still the older one. I haven't thought of her in a long time and remembering her makes me yearn for the June holidays at Sentosa bungalows when she taught me how to play mahjong. Would my memories of her be changed if she were alive for longer years, hooked up to a machine? Would I remember her more as silent, still body in a hospital bed; instead of her long arms lifting me when I was a child, her laugh that sounded like...no, I don't remember how it sounded anymore.

Elswhere in the world, the Pope lies dying. He too is being fed by a tube, though he has a living will. If he should not last the night or the next few days, I hope he slips away quietly, without pain. God is with him, and I hope, with every one of us too.

Twilight: After Haying

Yes, long shadows go out
from the bales; and yes, the soul
must part from the body:
what else could it do?

The men sprawl near the baler,
too tired to leave the field.
They talk and smoke,
and the tips of their cigarettes
blaze like small roses
in the night air. (It arrived
and settled among them
before they were aware.)

The moon comes to count the bales,
and the dispossessed -
Whip-poor-will, Whip-poor-will
- sings from the dusty stubble.

These things happen...the soul's bliss
and suffering are bound together
like the grasses...

The last sweet exhalations
of timothy and vetch
go out with the song of the bird,
the ravaged field
grows wet with dew.

~ by Jane Kenyon

Posted by Monoceros at March 31, 2005 11:33 PM