vital processes

My mother is preparing to die.  She is not ill, she does not have a disease or a reason to believe she is dying, apart from the fact she is sixty-seven and growing, like all of us, statistically more likely to die with each passing year.  She prepares for death by giving away most of her clothes to the Salvation Army, and paring down her possessions to almost nothing.  She tells me after their dog dies they won't get another, because there is no way to be sure they will live long enough to look after it for its entire life.  She has my father give me information about where to find their wills, and not to sell his stamp collection for less than the estimated value he provides.  I find this kind of talk difficult to bear.  The thought of my parents' death is awful; the thought of one of them having to live without the other is worse.

When I was a child, my mother's mother used to show us her rings - still on her fingers - and tell us which one would be left for each of us.  My father's mother showed us little tags stuck to the bottom of each of her china figurines, each one bearing the name of one her grandchildren.  I inherited Little Boy Blue, but not the ring, because it was never put in writing.  I would much rather have my grandparents.

The omnipresence of death is so complete it is nearly invisible.  I hardly notice it most of the time, resting there on my chest and tangled in my breath.


*