Hospice came and said, “She’s in transition.”
And she was, she slipped away today.
Such a lovely way to say, “She’s dying;”
The Final Journey rather than The End.
A week ago today we sat together,
Talking of the past and her short future,
It wasn’t resignation. She seemed at peace,
Remembering fondly a life well lived.
She was French, Catholic, and from Vermont.
She was the the older sister that became the nun,
and was for many years and then she wasn’t.
Devotions and prayers seemed pallid stuff.
Moving from the protection of the convent
To the chaos of the outside world
The Peace Corps called and off she went to Cameroon.
Remembering its people brought a smile.
When she left the convent she left the church.
But she never lost faith in humankind
She lived at the bottom of the hill and,
We met twenty miles away at church.
Another Unitarian by this time
She worried about women in Sudan
Didn’t eat meat and rescued animals,
And taught Hispanic women how to read.
When she died her bedside table held three things,
A bouquet of flowers from the yard, a flickering candle,
and a picture of her long departed husband, Hank.
Those may have been the last three things she saw.
It was a smooth transition I would say;
Pain eased by having her sisters near
And by the visits of her many friends
And by Morphine and by ever deepening sleep.