Into Emptiness
Gradually, over the course of days and nights, she began to give up everything. First her body became more relaxed, as though it wasn’t hers anymore. Then she stopped having any sense of whether she liked or didn’t like anything. Then she couldn’t tell who anyone was or recognize anything in the room. All of the worries and cares of her life began to mingle in her delirium: her clothes, things she had to do at home or for my father, things at the office where she had worked. One by one she put them down, too. Finally there was only a dim awareness that grew finer and finer as her breath seemed to go more and more deep—more and more inward. It was as if the heavy earth of her body were dissolving into water. Then this water of the moving of her blood dissolved into the fire of images that receded in the distance. The fiery images dissolved into air and the air into space, endless space and endless consciousness. My father cried and said, “It isn’t fair,” just as my sons, arguing with one another or carefully watching each other divide some special food might say “It isn’t fair.” I knew she was gone but it didn’t really make any sense that she was gone. She didn’t go anywhere. And the gone that she was was really no different from the gone that she had usually been to me my whole adult life and even during my life as a child. In one way she was gone, but in another way she was very present. We stood there looking at her. She looked very noble, and we were all in awe of her. Then everyone wanted to leave, and I said, “Is it all right if I stay with her a while?” Yes it was, and they left. It was nearly dawn. The light coming in the window was lovely and my mother looked lovely in the light. Her skin was a different color than it had ever been before. It looked very soft and gentle. I could see that she had many freckles on her face. I had never before noticed that she had freckles. I felt like talking to her. I said, “Don’t be confused!”
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