The Stranger's Mother
May 2nd 2011 12:36
A man came to me today to talk about death. About the cancer inside his mother that had taken her away.
I had never met this man; and he had never met me. I stood listening while tears rose from behind his eyes and shimmered from behind his glasses.
I did not say sorry. I am not apathetic to anguish. Rather, I feel that offering an apology belittles grief. It implies that the offerer had some part in the occurrence and if he wanted, could have mitigated its passing.
I listened to his tale and did not avert my gaze when his tears erected an amorphous barrier between he and I.
His mother was still with him, I said. Not in spirit or ghost but as an entry into his own history. Were he to unfurl his life like a great cloth sail, she would be sewn into the fabric. He could roll it up and carry it with him. Then he could pause and let the cloth unravel. She would be there accepting a cup of tea. Driving a car. And if he wanted to see, eking out her last words before her power source went out.
I had never met this man; and he had never met me. I stood listening while tears rose from behind his eyes and shimmered from behind his glasses.
I did not say sorry. I am not apathetic to anguish. Rather, I feel that offering an apology belittles grief. It implies that the offerer had some part in the occurrence and if he wanted, could have mitigated its passing.
I listened to his tale and did not avert my gaze when his tears erected an amorphous barrier between he and I.
His mother was still with him, I said. Not in spirit or ghost but as an entry into his own history. Were he to unfurl his life like a great cloth sail, she would be sewn into the fabric. He could roll it up and carry it with him. Then he could pause and let the cloth unravel. She would be there accepting a cup of tea. Driving a car. And if he wanted to see, eking out her last words before her power source went out.
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