Maternal Demise

Odd as I look back to 1988 when I wrote this, how hard I was working on the relationship I had then, how naive, how sentimental --really almost silly and sad as I look back; but we all know hindsight is 20/20. I was eaten up with out of control hypertension, and my cardiologist volunteered me for an angiogram; loads of fun, but kind of scary too--another peek at one's mortality, another sobering moment when things are supposed to come into clarity; and hopeful creatures that we are, we believe it can happen. I believed it did happen, and for a few magnificent moments --it did.

TILL DEATH DO US PART

Your lovely face was ever
before me
as I was being wheeled
down those sterile corridors.

Fear was like a pair of fists
against my throat,
rolling fast
toward the unknown.

I was left for a long time
lying on a shaky cart
in the prep area,
and later
in the recovery room,
being ignored.

In such of place of apathy
and confusion
and disinfectant,
one feels that death is given
a free hand.
There is no bastion
from the dark denizens,
even in,
especially in
a hospital.

Everyone wore masks
and remained strangers.
In a panic,
I searched their empty faces
for that one
that might save me
from the icy hands
and frozen breath
of the silent spectre
that surely slid amongst them,
stood behind them,
staring straight
at me,
with its coal-black orbs,
that I refused to peer into,
because the aquamarine
of my lover's gaze
easily shattered the shadows,
pierced the robotics,
and hovered over me
like pale flakes of pure gold.

Did I have coronary heart disease?
Would my chest have to be pryed open
like a ripe lobster?
Would I ever see you again?

I know...these inquiries seem silly
now,
but my darling,
on that particular black Monday
in the recovery room waiting
for the verdict
from my cardiac specialist,
I was not
laughing.

Only the day before
as I held you in my arms,
I knew that I had everything
to live for.
I pressed my head to your breast,
and I heard you softly say
that everyone you had truly loved
had been taken from you.

I held my hand over your wet lips,
and I told you
that before you had graced my life,
I had never known such passion,
stimulation and contentment,
such happiness;
and that if I were given a choice,
I would chose life
and you.

In that cool hospital grayness,
while waiting,
I thought about death
and you,
and our daughter,
and a kind of peace
began to settle over me.

My unspilled tears receded,
and I began to smile,
realizing
that my life was no longer
a question mark.
It was,
instead,
a declaration.

I love you,
simplicity itself;
and the real miracle in all this
is that you love me
too.
Christ,
for the first time in my whole life
I am positive that a woman
loves me.

Somewhere deep
beyond my hypertension
and ego,
in a dark cavern of flesh,
candles of love
were lit,
and the warmth from them
wriggled through me
like summer wine;
and the light from them
filtered up through my pores,
and created a yellow-blue aureole
around me.

Yesterday,
when I stared into your eyes,
I saw things,
I felt things,
I learned things;
beautiful and sad things
that have slowly spiraled up
from the paralysis of the past.
And death too,
yes,
I even saw death there in your eyes
on that Sunday afternoon.
We surveyed it,
death,
and we made a pact
with each other,
a bond that transcends breath...actual love.

I held you as we both wept,
and without words
we sensed that if
I ever slipped away from you,
you could never lose me
entirely.
Your soul has actually kissed
mine.
You have allowed me
to take up residence
within you;
complete sublime and sweet
access
to each other's heart.

At one point
on Black Monday,
lying as still as I could,
with silver clamps
pinching shut my wound,
I closed my eyes
and you appeared
at the foot of my bed.

Your beautiful smile turned
to pain.
My pain seemed to become
yours,
leaping from me
to you;
we shared it.

Then oddly,
you began to grow
younger,
literally shrinking into your shoes,
smaller and smaller until
you finally stood before me
as a child
of five years old,
with tiny tears filling
your great blue eyes,
reaching out into thin air
with your baby's hands,
with one word on your toddler's lips;
Mommy!

That single word shot through me
like a bolt of lightning,
Mommy;
and I recalled myself sitting
in the sand by the side of the road
in the darkness of an evening
in 1967,
that first Christmas after
my own mother died;
remembering how terribly alone
I was
without her,
staring into those cold stars
suspended above the desert,
reaching out into thin air,
my own eyes full of tears,
uttering one word;
Mommy.

I could not stop weeping
for several hours,
as my deep sobs soared out across
the still black horizon
like the throbs of some
great emotional engine;
ryhthmic and even,
intense and heartfelt;
and then they were gone,
and so was
my pain.

Yes,
Our mothers are gone,
my love,
but a rosebud thought
pinned itself to my chest
that rainy Monday.

What if now,
wherever they are,
hidden behind the veil,
they know each other,
have become friends,
and are helping us
to get together;
enabling us to fuse our love
for one another,
into a bridge of trust
that will extend from our mortal souls
into that delicious void
that they inhabit?
What if
they are hugging each other,
mantled with maternal joy
as they witness our coupling?

You see,
our love is white hot,
alive,
beaming out of our bodies
like solar energy,
filling whole rooms,
whole cities
with its rays,
dazzling,
even frightening those
closest to us
with its blue-gold brilliance.

Our two mouths
form one smile,
because we understand that
our love
is a precious gift
from beyond.

For a magnificent moment,
at the foot of the bed,
we all seemed to stand there together,
with our individual hands extended.
Our child's voices asked,
Mommies,
we still miss you,
we still need you.
Then our fingers touched,
flesh to spirit,
and there was this incredibly
warm pile of intertwining
hands.

Thank-you,
dear Mothers.
We needed that.


Glenn Buttkus June 1988