The Undertaking Poem by Tara Teeling

Long ago summer days
were rife with coppery pigtails
and brown bags of penny candy;
plump marshmallow strawberries and
leaves of spearmint coated with granules of
white sugar sand.

By the water’s edge,
you watched my clumsy diving,
chortling with merriment
while I splashed and sputtered.
Ready for the catastrophes
that a belly full of delusive confidence could bring,
you were the lifeguard;
with you near, I could breathe under the water.

I decided that you were a constant;
a Christmas gift to remember.
The jingle and chime of nervous pocket change,
and the spicy scent of La Palinas
were both evidence of you.
A touch of watered whiskey
would always be fashionable at four.

We’d speak not of endings;
they were legend and lie.
I slept with doors open and sheets up to my neck,
to ward off the darkness we feared.
On Sunday mornings,
you were always there,
and we’d creep silent through the sleepy streets,
careful not to wake Heaven or Hell.

On the last Sunday, the phone shrilled at six.
My blood iced at the sound and
I dove for the safety of the pillows,
seeking shelter in the covers.
Good news never comes on a holy day at dawn.
Only calamity wakes with the crows
and bellows its arousal.

I breathed in deep
and made my way to where you’d closed your eyes.
My skin was purpled from my pinches;
proof that I was here.
A disdain for inertia bubbled like lava in my throat,
so I swallowed it down, imagining the penny candy,
disallowing the distraction of acid.

You were hushed and still: undisturbed.
A strange smile graced your pale, waxy face.
I smiled at the sweetness of your slippers,
and laughed through tears at the red suspenders
clasped tightly to your pants.
You’d dressed for the occasion,
and I’d come to you in jeans.

I’d feared the sight of death, assumed its wretched smell.
The door’s mouth was open, taunting me,
daring me to flee.
The vision of grim tendrils trying to prick my skin
should have sent me running for asylum.
My own terror could have closed my eyes,
shielding me from the sight.

And yet…

I took a seat on the bed beside you
and stroked your cold, pallid cheek.
I straightened out the braces
so you’d look smart when they arrived.
I told you that I loved you and
hoped that you could hear.
I sat and I waited. I waited and I sat.

Hours masked as lifetimes
passed in quiet on that day.
With the circle of each hand,
I was seated to your side.
It was more than returning a favour,
more than morbid interest;
I didn’t want you to wait alone.
So, on the deathbed I sat and I waited.
I waited and I sat.

When they came to take you,
I was mournful that the vigil ceased.
I cried warm tears in the cold, gauze-white halls
and searched for solutions where I knew there’d be none.
I looked toward the other cracking faces,
craning forward from wheeled chairs;
inquisitive and fearful.
I smiled so as not to alarm those who waited in line.

I don’t dive anymore.
My audience left on a Sunday.
I sleep through the dawn, rarely rising before nine,
and my holy days are still spent quiet,
but for my own purpose.
My wait with you was a feat that gave birth to reason;
I can sleep without the covers
and I still crave something sweet.