Witness on Love's Last Journey

We,  as women , have become removed or often separated from another crucial role in our community and families. That of Witness. It is expected we star , direct, produce, or otherwise operate as central casting in the life and lives around us leaving us separate from a whole where we can act as the  witness .

In action something vital can be lost. Not doing but being.

In the early time ,before light and just as dark begins to lift , they sat in a circle , in silence. Warm hands, wreathed in soapy bubbles gently followed the the cooling landscape of the mother's vessel. First her face and then her arms through... to all of her outward being. Dried and powdered, we dressed her gently and covered her in a cozy blanket . ...Rest, Momma.We are your witness.

The women in the circle , loosely formed, were  the grieving kin of Lucinda. Two of her daughters, 18 and 15, sat gathered in ,faces turned inward amongst the rest of the bodies huddled in the small light of the living room. They bore mute witness as we bathed and dressed Lucinda in  the soft cotton dress and clasped the silver necklaces around her neck. Necklaces that had been resting on her pillow as she labored through her transitions in this her last earthly journey. The nurse and I stroked , crooning and humming , whispering to her as she lay,"We are going to turn you now, sweetie.That's a baby, gently down. "Her chest, while silent ,still felt that it held on so we held on. Drawing the blanket up around her shoulders , tucked against the draft of the opening door as it admitted  more, soft kisses on her forehead, " Rest now, Momma, this work is done. Rest Momma."stepping back into the shadows cast we join the women bearing witness to another of our ranks called, leaving behind babies needing arms to hold them , hearts to hear them  and years to guide them.