Shield from my Grief

Several days had passed since you last rose from your bed. I was with you daily from that point on, giving you baths in bed and then a massage with the cannabis oil your wife made. During one of these sessions you looked up at me and said “I’ve never seen your face. Can you take off your mask?”

Without hesitation, I drew the blue paper mask down my face. You gazed at my face, and I smiled with tears welling in my eyes. You stared without speaking, as if you wanted to memorize the details.

Once I brought my portable turntable and we listened to old hippie records. You tapped your toes in time, music moving in and through your body.

The home was made a temple, soft voices and lighting, chanting in Sanskrit humming through the stereo, fresh flowers on every altar. We all walked gently through the space, holding vigil as you completed your process.

Your wife, grounded and soft, moved through the home in a constant current of care and connection. She was acutely aware of you and your needs at all times. She frequently played the recordings of your own music, recorded years ago, before Parkinson’s took your guitar skills. We set your guitar in your lap a few times, and you would strum for a few moments. Music permeated the scene, filled the silent corners with reverence and joy.

After you passed, I came to give you your final bath and dress you for transport. You felt every bit of present in those moments, your energy was near and calm. As I washed your body, tears rolled down my smiling face and I thought about that moment when you asked me to remove my mask. Again I pulled the blue paper covering off my face, and with it went the shield from my own grief.

I felt the weight we who walk with the dying bear, fall away like autumn leaves in the breeze. Unmasking my face, being authentic with my emotions at the bedside of the dying, I saw into the beyond, into the long horizon of a cold winter morning. where you and me dissolve into us and everything.