Questions for my Mother Part 3: Where do they go?

Have you seen the movie Temple Grandin? It stars Claire Danes and is the true and wonderful story of an autistic animal behaviorist. There are a couple of scenes where Temple sees the dead body of an animal or a person and asks: Where do they go?

Since I've been thinking about death lately (not in a morose way, I just have a Day of the Dead obsession--that's all), this line of Temple's reminded me of seeing my mom's dead body.
[Note: growing up Catholic means that I saw all sorts of dead bodies at wakes, but the enbalming, kneeling, flowers and dark curtains make for an entirely different spooky experience.]
I took a red-eye across the country and arrived at my parents house in Rhode Island a few hours after my mom passed away.  As I came in the front door, my dad pointed me to the bedroom. The word 'lifeless' had a new significance after seeing my mom's body there without "her" in it.

So the question for my mother today is: Where do they go? 


I could muse about this for hours-- the science, the philosophy. Of course it's an age-old question, but it becomes poignant when you witness  the death of someone first-hand.

Here is something I wrote a couple of months later  (It's meant to be spoken rather than read):

My mother is dead.

I saw her body with my own eyes , An inanimate object , she lies on the bed. Empty.

Her suffering gone

Her smile gone

Her hair gone

Her laugh quiet

Her hands cold, and twisted

Her mouth slightly open

I can no longer resist it

My mother is dead.

So I just sit there on the bed, wishing I wasn’t there, wishing I could  talk to her one more time, let her hold me one more time

Wishing I’d been an easier child,

Wishing  I’d  been one of those girls with a mild, temperment

But this is permanent.

My mother is dead

I knew this would happen But not so soon There was part of me that

Felt immune . Felt like there would be some sort of miracle

Like she was really some sort of mythical character.   

A mother immortal

My mother is dead.  

And as I Look at her body, I see clearly that she is gone. That whatever life is, it’s been withdrawn . And whatever life means  is beyond me

You see, to me—it seems  impossible, and when I get philosophical i trip out on the question: who am I ? what is this? And I don’t mention it much because people don’t want to think about it.

We’re so wrapped up in our lives that we miss out on it. And I ask: what really matters anyway?

My mother is dead.

The men in suits walk into my parents house. The men in suits walk into her bedroom and carry her out in a black body bag.

A black. body. bag. The object removed.

The men in suits are polite standing with their hands folded behind their backs speaking in hushed tones.  Neighbors bring platters of little sandwiches on soft rolls. The bed where my mother has been lying for weeks for months, is empty.

My mother is dead.


photo by Terrence Gavan