Few poets wrote as eloquently about the approach of death as Jane Kenyon; I’ve had one of hers up before; I posted it during the period when my father was in hospice care, and we were walking with him towards death.
In my women’s history class on Tuesday, I gave a ringing lecture on birth control and the importance of bodily autonomy. But in the end, if we’re lucky to live long, we lose that precious mastery of our own flesh. As strong as we are now, it will, in the end, always be otherwise.
Otherwise
I got out of bed
on two strong legs.
It might have been
otherwise. I ate
cereal, sweet
milk, ripe, flawless
peach. It might
have been otherwise.
I took the dog uphill
to the birch wood.
All morning I did
the work I love.
At noon I lay down
with my mate. It might
have been otherwise.
We ate dinner together
at a table with silver
candlesticks. It might
have been otherwise.
I slept in a bed
in a room with paintings
on the walls, and
planned another day
just like this day.
But one day, I know,
it will be otherwise.
I hope something gets me quick before I go too far down that road. I had so many bad things done to me when young and vulnerable, I don’t want to again be helpless in the hands of people who might do who knows what. Don’t know if there’s anyone on earth I can trust, lesat of all those who are supposed to take care of the old and sick. I bet I am not the only one feeling this way.
Even when I was young, I didn’t make fun of old people like a lot of my contemporaries. But I don’t know if it has helped.