My mother's an expert in one thing: <br />sending people she loves into the other world. <br />The little ones, the babies--these <br />she rocks, whispering or singing quietly. I can't say <br />what she did for my father; <br />whatever it was, I'm sure it was right. <br /> <br />It's the same thing, really, preparing a person <br />for sleep, for death. The lullabies--they all say <br />don't be afraid, that's how they paraphrase <br />the heartbeat of the mother. <br />So the living grow slowly calm; it's only <br />the dying who can't, who refuse. <br /> <br />The dying are like tops, like gyroscopes-- <br />they spin so rapidly they seem to be still. <br />Then they fly apart: in my mother's arms, <br />my sister was a cloud of atoms, of particles--that's the difference. <br />When a child's asleep, it's still whole. <br /> <br />My mother's seen death; she doesn't talk about the soul's integrity. <br />She's held an infant, an old man, as by comparison the dark grew <br />solid around them, finally changing to earth. <br /> <br />The soul's like all matter: <br />why would it stay intact, stay faithful to its one form, <br />when it could be free?<br /><br />Louise Gluck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/lullaby-4/
