Sorry: the formatting has been bloody lost when I added the Content Warning - on several posts, and I don't have the time to fix them all so I won't fix any.
This post is a bit different: it is my reaction to seeing my mother as she lay dying in palliative care, after a 2,000km drive. I had it worded so much more clearly when it came to me, but I couldn't leave her to go and write it down. Maybe the words will came back again, and I'll be able to better it. Kayleen White The struggle What struggle is this I see before me of spirit and form! This spirit I know so well, that nurtured me, cared for me, inspired me - as when a dying bird a pet, held your finger for comfort - much as I do now: hold the hands of your form, the skin of your forearms, mottled with age, against mine, one white, one brown with the sun of the driven days to get here. Your form, so clearly so recognisably still you, though the flesh has shrunk with age and illness, I can still see you and know you - your bones still hold your form. Your bones. Your form's inner strength, that strength which even now, as spirit calls, still holds to worldly life. I can see them here Pop, your father, doughty Scot, your mother, our Nan; they're here for you, - they're here to help you go, for go you must, as must we all. A poet once wrote: "d not go gentle into that good night" Aye, go not gently: - shout, and call out, and dance about -celebrate this life! Rejoice - we'll help with that, your family, both those in spirit, and those not yet, for we're all here for that, for it is time to go, to let this battle of spirit and form come to truce; no more rasping, struggling breaths, just one last rattle in that loved chest, and free from pain you'll be, free with your family, both those in spirit, and those not yet. © Kayleen White, 2007
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