In State In Heaven

She lay in state by the window, her face softened in final repose. Outside, the little birds she enjoyed fluttered and pecked at the feeder. Brave pansies shivered in the frozen ground.

Her beloved painting of Jesus hung in the room—his sad, dark eyes fixed upon her. Yesterday, she pointed and whispered that his eyes were on me, too.

But his eyes weren't on me. They clouded the light they shined on her. I could never say, never tell her.

I kissed her papery cheek, grief’s saccharine taste on my tongue. My last goodbye, but she didn’t believe it was forever. I wish I could feel the same.

I wrote this after my aunt died. A remarkable woman, but not for the typical reasons we celebrate women today. A homemaker, gentle and kind, she quilted, baked delicious goodies, and worked part-time at her church doing the books and putting together the bulletin for Sunday morning services.

She was loving and nonjudgmental — avoided gossip and drama. Didn’t bat an eye when I stumbled in drunk on Christmas Eve, ghost-faced and red-lipped, stinking of cigarettes. 

“Come get your plate. I made your favorite peanut butter truffles.”

But folks like my aunt are rare. They tend to be quiet, doing “good deeds” behind the scenes, not interested in attracting attention or putting points on the holy scoreboard. They’re just being who they are. 

Still, her example wasn’t enough to keep me in the fold, and I fell away like a wayward seed gobbled by a crow.

It wasn’t until I started practicing yoga and reading spiritual texts and writings by Joseph Campbell that I began to understand how parables, myths, and archetypes shape our individual and collective consciousness and, along with rituals, help us cope with life’s brutality.

And now, I’m strangely comforted by the stories that once scared me, like the fall, a spiritual curse tainting all humanity. (A seed of fatalism! Maybe why I adore noir. . .) 

Because the truth is I’ve done some rotten things. (And I’m willing to bet you have, too. ) But it was only when I acknowledged my own darkness, my human condition, that I could extend grace to myself and others. 

I hope it’s the same sweet grace my aunt once lavished on me, always trusting in my goodness and potential. And while I believe in transcendence and some sort of invisible realm (the mystical place where ideas fall from the sky), I don’t really know if I’ll ever see my precious aunt again.

But even as I write this, she’s alive in my heart, mind, and words. And that’s forever, as far as I know.