The third bell

I have sprung a leak, am taking on water.

Perhaps in my sleep, I drifted across

a ragged rock or coral reef.

It's not yet dangerous: no sound

of swooshing in the hold.

But it's only a matter of time.

I have presented myself

with an arbitrary date: forty weeks,

a spiritual pregnancy.

The bell rang for my birth and marriage;

it's time now for the third bell.

I have to learn how to die,

to die with dignity; not sign off 

a snarky, snivelling wretch.

I am practicing stoicism.

I am loving more deeply

the things that matter: visits from friends,

music, light on the walnut tree.

It's been several years since I have seen

the night sky; so I will be taken out 

to drink my fill of moon and stars.

“Virgin namesake, moon-Queen at night fall.”

Or, the Duchess of Malfi's magic words:

“Look you, the star shines still.”

My mind wavers and I wonder at times 

whether I can retain my stubbornness.

But then I remember the hardship

of each days waking,

remember I can no longer consent

to the pain and endurance,

nor transform them into any

meaningful pattern.

I am asked whether I will find it hard

to say goodbye.  But, consider

how many times I have already said it:

feeding, cleaning, dressing myself

turning over in bed

walking, singing, playing the piano,

cooking, stitching my tapestry,

hugging my friends from their or my need.

The list could go on forever.

I have lived, so far, nearly three 

of the forty weeks yet to come.

There will be only one ending,

an ending I must learn to trust.