The Other Side

My mother tells me that she's on the other side now,
that she's closer to death than she is to life, that she
sees it, the way a high school sophomore can see college
or the army, or the way a man and a woman might see
their children, even when they have only known each
other a short while. When I ask her what it's like,
she says it's ok, that she believes in a god who's
our father, that she's sure there's somewhere to go.

I'm a year from the age she was when I was born,
and I can't imagine almost dying the way she did,
the way her body held my precariously perched body,
the way they expected the placenta to leave her
before I did, that I would drown still inside her and
that she would die as I became a tiny corpse. When
she tells this story, she says, "You did everything
right. You wedged the placenta in place with your

head, and slid out. You knew just what you had
to do, and you did it." Perhaps this is where I learned
fear, or perhaps this is where I learned protection.
Now when my mother insists that we kill her,
in case she becomes burdensome or difficult,
I don't assent in the way that I used to, but respond
seriously, with something like, "I won't kill you
or put you away, unless you're so far gone

you won't know you're being put away." For now,
though, she's as strong as ever, tending to her students,
to the life she's built. But Mom, listen, my arms
are stronger than they were. You've barely even crossed
the first threshold, and there are many more to come,
but when it's time, I'll be strong. You'll be able
to lie back. I promise, here and now, you'll get
the rest you've never known before the rest

you'll always keep.

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