Day 213: Hear Me Out, That Which You Call Death

I'm part of a 30-day grief writing course.  Today's writing is in response to a prompt. The first two lines are borrowed from "The Wild Iris" by Louise Gluck.

September 29, 2014

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Doors installation by Chan Hwee Chong.

Hear me out: that which you call death, I remember.
At the end of my suffering there was a door.
You could not come with me. The You of My Words
with your palms flat on my face and your lips on
the tip of my nose. You could not come with me.
My love person, with your head on my chest and
arms wrapped around my sides. I remember. I was there, too.

Hear me out: that which you call death, I remember.
Look! It is my heartbeat! I was speaking to you.
I'm right here, babe. I heard you tell me. I will
not leave you. I heard you speak. Your parents are
coming, babe. They will be here soon. I heard you
speaking to me. Please forgive me. I am so sorry.
I heard you speak. Your sweet, calming voice washed
over me as it always had. I heard you and I spoke back
in the beating of my heart. 111. 111. 111. It was me, babe.
I was speaking back to you. Did you hear me?

Hear me out: that which you call death, I remember.
Caleb. Mina. Paige. Beth. John. I remember. I was there.
They pulled you from me, babe. I remember. You did not
want to leave. I felt it, your heartbreak. Your hurt. I climbed
into your cage of ribs. Did you feel me then? I climbed
right into your cage of ribs and tried to comfort you.
My love person. My sweetheart. I had always wanted
to break free and inhabit the same cage of ribs as yours.

Hear me out: that which you call death, I remember.
Oh, Mum. Oh, Dad. Scott. I am so sorry. What trouble
I've been. This is not your fault. You are not at fault. You
must never reproach yourself. I remember. I was there, too.
I felt your hands on my leg. I heard you speaking. My bear!
Scotty, my bear! You remembered. My bear. My childhood
bear made the long flight with you. I know how you tried to
comfort me. Could you feel me trying to comfort you, too?

Hear me out: that which you call death, I remember.
I remember seeing the love in that room. Around my bed. Surging
through you, through me, through each other. You could not see
it, but with eyes swollen shut and yet eyes wide open I could see
it all. Swirling colors. Glowing sparks. You were each lit in love.
All that you touched- my legs, my face, my hair, my hands-
remained covered in this phosphorescent love. It warmed me.

Hear me out: that which you call death, I remember.
At the end of my suffering there was a door. You could not
come with me. You're going to have to do this alone, babe.
You told me. And I remember. You can do this. We're here.
Everyone's here. And it's ok. You can do this. You opened
the door, the door through which I had to go alone, you
opened it and stepped back. You could not come with me.

Hear me out: this was the end of my suffering. And the
beginning of yours. Hear me out: I am not far. And your
suffering will end. Hear me out, my love. My love person.
The You of My Words. Place your head and hand to this door
as you did to my chest. Are you there? Are you in there, babe?
I heard you there in my hospital bed.  I heard you begging for
a response. Please don't confuse my stillness with my absence.

At the end of my suffering there was a door. I walked through
alone, as I was asked. As I needed to do. I had to walk through
it alone. Go to it. Go right up to it. Place your hand and your head
against it and be still. Listen. Listen for me. Just when you think I
cannot hear you, hear me out: I am there. On the other side. I am there.