“Getting ready to die” poem 12/8/2023

Last night a woman I barely know
died
in my dream.
Many people were with her.
She had given them every bit of herself
Memories, wisdom, details about the bills.
the tethers of her light body
Were cut and
She ascended
Radiant
No longing in her, or others,
for her life to go on.
It was like
She herself
Declared her ship ready to sail
And cut the ribbon
We all watched this version of the virgin
Old lady Irene
Rise from her body.

What would it be to die like that?
Everyone you know there in the field
Willing to take their piece of you and carry on.
Every ‘to do’
Checked off.
Relationships scrubbed clean of karma.
the stuff of life in order.
Insurance policies and will in a folder on the desk.
Bills paid.
Every thing, from the car to the measuring spoons,
Tossed, given or assigned.
Nothing trashy for others to clean up.
No back forty
with dreams not lived,
tasks not done,
promises not kept.

After she ascended
The field was full of light for a long time.
The people slowly wandered away
with only lovely memories to carry home,
which, if they misplaced them,
nothing would really be lost.

What would it be to die like that?

I saw Irene in the thrift store last week
She told me about her death group
three wizened women who’ve met weekly for years
Talking about death

Perhaps I’ve been mulling this scrap of encounter,
Asking,
What would it be like to be intimate with death,
To introduce myself long before we meet
To probe the mysteries
Turning this way and that
Like gems
Our human notions
Of karma, of the afterlife, of soul liberation
Just seeing how the light shines through,
Until it’s no stranger
And I could ascend
As Irene did in my dream?

I’ve been clearing out my house
Giving away
The exercise bicycle
The heavy black filing cabinet
The futon chair
The dining table and chairs
The juicer
The wicker chest with a free sign
I’d lugged home and filled with pillows
which I’ve also given away
Big boxes of clothes and stuff
loaded into the car and off to the thrift store
Big boxes of paper gone to recycle, like
Bank records from 10 years ago,
So old the paper clips have rusted.
No one is coming to inspect my records.
Next are the jewelry
The dried-up glues and tubes of ointment and cans of paint
Every just-in-case thing
Every blow-up bed stored because,
When the apocalypse comes, I’ll need them.

Something in me is clearing the decks
To get to my soul’s bucket list:
The songs not yet sung,
The pardons not yet given,
The poems still bubbling up
From the artesian well of creativity,
The last hurrahs of
Getting everyone to do something
So beautiful that ancient knots are loosened
And we all, all of us, are
in that golden field
and a bit more free.

–Vicki Robin
shared by permission of the author