My mom used to work in hospitals and nursing homes. Long shifts. Heavy lifting. Clean-up in Room 3. Spilled-guts. Spilled-bowels. Spilled-bladder. Spilled-blood. Human-spill. Spill-spillage. She’d come home to house, nighttime-still. She’d come home to pass-out, lack of sleep. Stumble down stairs, wash away fluids. Wash away E. Coli. Wash away sweat. Wash away death-stench. Pass-out lack of sleep. Repeat, next day. Lift-up crying. Lift-up disease. Lift-up dying. Lift-up human-spillage. Repeat. Lift-up human-spillage. Repeat. The babies never had a chance. Twins. Fallopian-tube, burst. Platelet, internal-vein explosion. Ghost-bleeding. Phantom-bleeding. Insides-bleeding. Also known as hemorrhage. Also known as dying. Also known as 8 hours screaming/fainting/shaking pain. Also known as doctor-induced abort mission. Ride or die. Abort mission or sleep-eternal. No blood left. So I could hold two still-borns. One mass explosion. The other clump of tadpole-mess. Save the unborn. Send the living home. Follow the plan. Return home. Spare the rod, spoil the child. Kill the mother, spare the child. Or spoon-scrape cervix. Tissue-removal. Tissue-removal. And I wake every day thanking the doctor that left her blood-cup-half-full. Pray to false god of saving lives. Return me home. Return me home.

I didn’t want to go that Friday. I was angry with my life and arguing with my husband. I was feeling sorry for myself and not in any mood to be helpful to anyone else. When I walked in she was slouched over to one side, unable to pull herself back up. I took a deep breath and walked over to the bed. She had a look of relief on her face when she saw me. I propped her back up and positioned pillows under her arm so she wouldn‘t fall over again. She was so far from the strong sturdy woman who took care of her family on her own when she couldn’t bare the mess she was in anymore. She stood against society to take that stand. She was the one who told me not to cry to force me into reality as a young child. Now, she was so humbled and totally dependent on others.

I reminded her of the new body she would have one day because of her profession of faith. I oftened teased her about dancing a jig on streets of gold. We sat and discussed the end for a few moments. What would happen the day she took her last breath and came into the presence of the LORD. Just then the doctor walked in. He reported her tests looked good and she was improving.

Lunch would be served shortly. She would need someone to cut it up and help her eat. Just as the food arrived another visitor came. I was relieved that someone else was there to help and I could just go home. I gave her a kiss and promised to come after the weekend.

Early Sunday morning I got the call. I heard the words but couldn’t understand. The doctor said she was improving. I listened with unbelief. I was told Saturday morning she decided to remove all support. She said she was tired and wanted to go “home”. She had outlived her siblings and buried two of her own children. The doctor made sure she understood the repercussions of her decision. She did. She held on all day into early Sunday morning while family surrounded her.

Why wasn’t I called? Why didn’t they tell me? I was the closest one to her! She shared intimate things with me that she never spoke to anyone else. People who barely gave her the time of day and said unkind things behind her back were there.

But it didn’t matter. It was too late. She was gone. I wasn’t there to comfort her or say goodbye. I wasn’t there to make jokes and see her smile. I wasn’t there to reassure her that we would see each other again one day or tell her that everything was going to be ok. If I had known it was the last time, I would have told her how brave I thought she was and how much I looked up to her for the woman she was. If I had known it was the last time, I would have told her how much she meant to me, how much I loved her and regretted any disagreements we ever had. I would’ve told her I was sorry for my selfishness and wanted to spend more time with her. If I had only known it was the last time.

I believe that when we die, we go to our own heavens

millions, thousands of them

one for each person - if we choose.

I believe that when we die, we get to have our own little star

and spend our days watching the ones below -

or not - whichever we choose.

I believe that whatever afterworld we imagine

they are all so real and so true

Because I guess the universe is big enough

to make room for everyone - if they please.

Because if heaven is a place of eternal bliss,

you can’t expect everyone there

to get along perfectly well

all jammed up in default-paradise.

Some might not want cotton candy as trees

some might be allergic to cats

some might want to live in the woods

and some might need wifi

and a charger for their phones

Some might want some peace and quiet

while some might want to play the piano

or even

an electric guitar.

It would be like a gigantic apartment

with a quadrillion inhabitants from all over the world,

quarreling and bickering and gossiping away

So I believe that when we die

we go to a place where we go when we sleep

to our own very personal star

somewhere in a corner of the universe

where all our dreams become real -

that is, of course, if we choose so.

It starts with imagination

A creative escape

From duldrums and responsibilities

Into my own space

Where I can do anything

Then it ends with silence

Alone, when I finally see

All my characters are hollow

But the world and folks around me

Have infinitely more stories and adventures

Then it starts again

This time, with a spark

Stolen from the daily gods of life

And forged in the dark

Inspired by my sojourn in the world off page

Eventually it will stop

When reality beckons me back

To heed the calls of friends and windmills

When I find that I lack

The will to keep imaginging, when I could be doing

But one day when I'm gray

And my hands barely type

I'll return to the page

Before they fade, while my memory is ripe

I'll try once more to create what I can no longer explore

souls connected

just hold right on

to her whole

a gentle touch

hands moving with

grand artist’s finesse

every cell burning

left craving for

more & mor’

o, how I adore

when she leans

closer~ au naturel

#NATURELLE.

Can you hear the sound of metallic footsteps approaching? Or see the ghosts of your departed loved ones?

Then know that it’s coming. Riding on a golden horse. One that seems to shine more than the blazing sun!

Will you take death’s hand? Ride away to another realm. A place of rest after life on earth.

#MORT~

Aurora Orchestra - Mozart Requiem:

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=SjJ3OsgNytA&feature=youtu.be

Have you had your heart stabbed?

The muscle shredded into threads of copious strands of blood, purple blood.

No oxygen lives there.

No air.

No breath.

The gasping is a precursor to more hate.

Ah, but the pen comes and mops up all the sanguineous fluid into a neat space of time... a paper, tablet, phone, a screen to the inner hardware of the heart.

That is where peace and love await for the end of the page.

It’s the time when calves

venture further away from

their mommas and wonder

what the grass tastes like

on the other side of the barbs

And they wander through the

sun-soaked field as far

and as fast as they can.

It’s this same time that

fledglings jump

or are pushed

or fall

out of trees, the wind

whistling louder than their cries

The fledglings aren’t the

only ones to test wings

and the calves aren’t the only ones

to sample the new grass.

Everyone samples the

petrifying excitement

of loving the thing

you were meant to love

before you know you were

meant to love it.