The Colour of Death is Gold

 

I

Mother was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in September.

I returned to live with her.

She received the bulbs for her eighty-fifth birthday,

In November, from one of my sisters.

‘Happy Birthday, Mum!  Look, we brought you flowers,

Or the promise of flowers,’ she laughed.

‘They’ll come out in bunches, like our families.

You can think of everybody while you watch them grow.’

Mum looked at the wizened bulbs, and said softly,

‘Daffodils! What a good present. I hope I see them bloom.’

When the party was over my mother put her bulbs in the pantry,

Reminding  me,  ‘Remember to plant them in a couple of days.’

She sighed wearily and closed the door.

Immediately I helped her prepare for bed.

                                                               …

Two weeks later I needed something –

A jar of jam – a can of soup – a piece of string - - -

And there were the bulbs on the pantry floor.

Four sickly shoots had sprouted – dwarfed, contorted.

I was awed, and stricken.

Look  how I had forced this new life to feed on itself,

With no hope for the flower.

I felt like a murderer.

But when these ashen spears snuggled into damp peat

And drank winter sunlight from a southern window

They greened and grew – and grew and grew.

Hourly, it seemed, we could mark their progress.

We had to resist stroking their glossy leaves.

Soon the buds were plump with hidden petals.

Late one sunny morning they unfurled in clarion gold.

We cupped the fragrant blossoms to our faces,

And smiled at each other: Mmmm. Aren’t they heavenly!

 

II

 

Now, hourly, my mother collapses in upon herself

As the fearful cancer eats her up from the inside out.

I feel every helpless minute:

She lifts up and puts down her precious ornaments, just so.

She pushes her carrots skittishly aside saying, ‘They’re too sweet.’

She sits precisely beneath her lamp reading the newspaper upside down.

She defecates neatly into her potty with drugged effort and appalling odour.

And all the interminable while, with their aching golden trumpets,

The resurrected daffodils emblazon the room,

And my mother’s wasting, beautiful face.

Suddenly, I can bear their flaunting vivacity no more,

 And I cry, muffled,

Curled up in the hallway outside her door.

Through the days that follow Mum and I share little loving things.

On a warm towel I bathe her gently and oil her delicate feet.

Her favourite stories are near the cassette by her bed.

When morphine drives her mind crazy I hold her close.

When her fingers beg peace I sit very still.

I am so glad that she is at home, in her own bed,

Under the hand-knitted coverlet she made for Dad.

Family, friends, and caregivers come and go

With endless medical charts, useless  gossip and green tea.

But we are often alone.

On her deathbed my mother teaches me still –

Compassion – constancy – discernment.

In her faltering eyes I can see her soul strengthen

As she reaches deeply within herself for nourishment –

For light – for growth.

And again, I am in awe of the life force.

There are no selfish tears now,

Only joy for new beginnings.

While the golden daffodils slowly wither away

The bud of Mother’s spirit swells with secret petals.

My heart thrills, and I wonder –

Who will cup in loving hands her promised flower?

Cynthia Buell Thomas