Stand still, O Beautiful End
The Memorial for Grandma went very well. We are a loving bunch, and our desire to please her memory was appropriately expressed in music and words. Grandma loved singing and reading. In fact, we buried her with a romance novel so well loved that I had to re-glue the binding and tape the cover together. It was delightful to see how my family expresses love in song and performance; Selfishly, I state that I have very talented relatives. We had four pianists, two quartet's worth of singers, and a clarinetist.
Once, when my cousin Debbie was eating diner at Grandma's, Debbie was told to eat her peas. Debbie hates peas. Grandma said "Debbie, dear, you must learn to eat things that you do not like the taste of because one day, when the Queen invites you over for diner, you must eat whatever she has served." Impressed by the possibility, she, wide-eyed and round-mouthed, finished her plate. Debbie was young enough to look forward to the perceived inevitability of dining with the Queen, even if she served peas.
What I took away from the Memorial was an image from a poem which I would like to share: the idea of life as a flight through the air that ends "in the folding of the wings over the nest." Such a gentle image of completion and soft-feathered satisfaction. I imagine the way that birds tuck their heads under their wings with habitual comfort, as if closing their eyes is not enough and they need to physically distance themselves from the light.
Wishing for the little things, I want to hold her hand again and make eye contact with a smile. But a part of me knows that I did receive her last lucid moment, even if she struggled to express it beyond her eyes locked on mine. She certainly was smiling.
Peace my heart...
Peace, my heart, let the time for parting be sweet.
Let it not be a death but completeness.
Let love melt into memory and pain into songs.
Let the flight through the sky end in the folding of the wings over the nest.
Let the last touch of your hands be gentle like the flower of the night.
Stand still, O Beautiful End, for a moment, and say your last words in silence.
I bow to you and hold up my lamp to light you on your way.
by Rabindranath Tagore
Once, when my cousin Debbie was eating diner at Grandma's, Debbie was told to eat her peas. Debbie hates peas. Grandma said "Debbie, dear, you must learn to eat things that you do not like the taste of because one day, when the Queen invites you over for diner, you must eat whatever she has served." Impressed by the possibility, she, wide-eyed and round-mouthed, finished her plate. Debbie was young enough to look forward to the perceived inevitability of dining with the Queen, even if she served peas.
What I took away from the Memorial was an image from a poem which I would like to share: the idea of life as a flight through the air that ends "in the folding of the wings over the nest." Such a gentle image of completion and soft-feathered satisfaction. I imagine the way that birds tuck their heads under their wings with habitual comfort, as if closing their eyes is not enough and they need to physically distance themselves from the light.
Wishing for the little things, I want to hold her hand again and make eye contact with a smile. But a part of me knows that I did receive her last lucid moment, even if she struggled to express it beyond her eyes locked on mine. She certainly was smiling.
Peace my heart...
Peace, my heart, let the time for parting be sweet.
Let it not be a death but completeness.
Let love melt into memory and pain into songs.
Let the flight through the sky end in the folding of the wings over the nest.
Let the last touch of your hands be gentle like the flower of the night.
Stand still, O Beautiful End, for a moment, and say your last words in silence.
I bow to you and hold up my lamp to light you on your way.
by Rabindranath Tagore