The Missing Page

The poem that follows is about the last words I may ever speak to my beloved mother. I was many miles away, and the attending nurse held a cell phone to her ear. I am told that she showed some awareness of my voice, but there is no way of knowing whether she understood what was said to her or who was saying it. She made no effort to speak, and her eyes remained fixed on a slowly turning ceiling fan.

 

As I reflected on that experience, it occurred to me that I was not trying to recall the last moments I spent in conference with a loved one, but a soliloquy that is lost in the deepest part of my sorrow. In brief, I recall telling her that everything good was on the other side and that she had succeeded as a person, as a wife and mother, and as a child of God. But I spoke to her for at least thirty minutes and said many things that I no longer remember.

 

The Missing Page

 

(Or Words That Dwell with the Dead)

 

I did not know if you could hear

The words I muttered in your ear,

As you were swaddled in a light

That fell upon the tears of night

 

I only know that things were said

That freed a soul to join the dead,

Where all are kept behind a door

With good and ill forevermore

 

But I am lost, as I have aged

And cannot find a missing page

That I would read again for you

If you could hear and I could do.

 

Oh, how it seemed as if I stood

Upon a step of almond wood;

And in a flood of faith, so pure,

Poured all I love into your ear

 

I think I said that you were free

To be at peace and not with me;

I think I said that I would stay

Until our book is put away

 

I did not know if you could hear

The words I muttered in your ear;

I only know that things were said

That dwell forever with the dead.

Reviews

[Lisasview]

From your very beginning words ... I began to cry... My heart aches for your loss as I know it well.
Your poem brought back so many strong feelings about both my parents last minutes..
My mother was unawares as I sat close to her and promised that she could go and I would look after my younger sisters.
My father and I spoke by phone... at 96 years of age he was still with it...but within hours of our talk he passed away.
Memories is what we all have left...and, I am glad for them.
I wrote a poem called Guardian of Memories I think you might enjoy.
I also wrote Awaken another I think you might like because I have now read several more of your words...
Going back again to read this poem...
Lisa