"Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too
For his civility.
We passed the school, where children strove
At recess, in the ring;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.
Or rather he passed us;
The dews grew quivering and chill,
for only gossamer my gown
My tippet only tulle.
We passed before a house
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.
Since then 'tis centuries,
And yet each
feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses'
Were toward eternity.
BY EMILY DICKINSON
We are getting ready in this house for Death to come calling at our door very soon now. Any day actually.
My mother's Alzheimer's Disease has suddenly accelerated its pace and given Death its calling card.
I am almost ready now. She throws up almost all the food I manage to get into her--no matter how hard I try. Her body is telling me it is shutting down completely now.
My mother loved/loves this Emily Dickinson poem. Like the pile of boxes in the photo above waiting for her to unwrap (she did not have the strength to open them herself), the days she has left now are like another pile of unopened packages. I hope I find the strength to untie them.