“Scalding Aortal Light…”

Today I sit in hospital with my sister-in-law. The doctor calls this morning to say she has had a difficult night. He wants make her comfortable with morphine.We are told that she may not make it through the afternoon.

Sedated with Adavan, she struggles to breathe. We sit; watch her resting. As the sedation wears off, she struggles more. Later, awake, she points to her watch, she wants to see TV. She is hungry. We don’t know when her time will come. Her lungs gurgle as she exhales–her chest heaves and crackles.

It’s evening. Darlene makes it through the day. It’s dark outside. A few snowflakes drift past the window. I go for take-out for my husband. He is exhausted, wrestling with letting go.

WHITE OWL FLIES INTO AND OUT OF THE FIELD

Coming down
out of the freezing sky
with its depths of light,
like an angel,
or a buddha with wings,
it was beautiful
and accurate,
striking the snow and whatever was there
with a force that left the imprint
of the tips of its wings–
five apart–and the grabbing
thrust of its feet,
and the indentation of what had been running
through the white valleys
of the snow–

and then it rose, gracefully,
and flew back to the frozen marshes,
to lurk there,
like a little lighthouse,
in the blue shadows–
so I thought:
maybe death
isn’t darkness, after all,
but so much light
wrapping itself around us–

as soft as feathers–
that we are instantly weary
of looking, and looking, and shut our eyes,
not without amazement,
and let ourselves be carried,
as through the translucence of mica,
to the river
that is without the least dapple or shadow–
that is nothing but light–scalding, aortal light–
in which we are washed and washed
out of our bones.

- MARY OLIVER -