Through The Eyes Of Esmine Poem by John Whitfield

6: 00 p.m. March 09,2011

Black flat screen in front of me
shows my bleak future
blank no picture no views of the dark world
where tempests rage across the foaming sea
where they die instantly
blown apart by IED’s and fire storms
raining torrential evaporation
of living things,
but
I see nothing of that
through my tired eyes
that see these four walls
holding up pale white ceiling
my sky for the rest of my brief life,
my darling son at my right hand
holding it as I had done his
so many distant years ago

and Annie flitting about like white light
in a dark cave
chatting incessantly,
sweet dear she is to me,
my engrafted one,
my black sheep from a white family
who never would have lived
had it not been for Him who gave her life
and they, dear cherubs, tall and thin
like reeds from swampy marshes
a generation gone from me
those children of my once live child,
both existing quite apart from me
not looking at my frail self
they too absorbed
(God bless their curiosity)
entrenched in techno-jargon
of their electronic toys
(they are just boys)

as LED’s light up their eyes
keeping in touch with all the world
outside this empty room
where all my life is,
husband, children, friends
and me sucking oxygen
between gulps of jello
and some tasteless yogurt
that I nodded for
in acquiescence
because I could not verbalize any more
than nod or speak
with tired eyes.

I lay there hanging on like a dead rock
on the end of a swirling string
my grip much weaker than before
when I could grasp ‘bout anything,
and I knew that soon was coming
the not so sudden end
nine hours from now at three
when Christ died long ago for me.

My husband took my hand in his
and kissed my forehead one last time
because he knew as I did
what was happening,
and the boys just kept their Facebooks
live and well-updated,
and Stuart found my resting place on-line, imagine that,
like me being inside that little black box
that had strange lights
emitting from inside,
with me, just barely able to see him looking
at whatever,
and Stevenson, so casual in that
Cincy cap turned sideways
so I could see his face
even just a little bit,
he too staring at the light
that kept himself alive
outside of where
I lay
me down to sleep with hopes
my Lord my soul will keep,
and when I leave,
that he will take good care of them,
and him, my husband, who has been
and is
all the world to me,
and will, hereafter, still be so
for all eternity.

My hands lie outward, fingers slightly bent, involuntarily,
and Annie moves them where she thinks
I will be more comforted,
for she lives in me,
and feels in me
the love I have for her
and all those by my side,
and she moves me, head, hands, and arms,
as if they were hers,
not mine,
and as my hours grow shorter,
my body weaker,
my mind absorbs it all to take with me
to wherever I shall go,
my most dearly beloved ones,
their words and memories
my gallery of priceless art,
my museum of my darlings’ history.

I see the minute hand racing
like that string with me the stone
circling the face urging the hours
to spin around with me alone
hanging on for dear life, so to speak,
and my bleary eyes
could barely make out the fuzzy figures
urging me to open wide,
or asking loudly if I needed anything
more than the few hours
that I had left,
and I know what they really wanted:
for me not to even be in this place at all
staring through my tired eyes
the closing wall
crashing in on me,
and soon,

I would let go that swinging string
and let myself fly into the vast beyond
where He who made me waits
with open arms for me
to come to Him,
and I will,
too soon for them who wait with me,
for they do not know what I do,
that the hour is close at hand
and my heaving chest, pressed down,
like CPR thrust on demand,
and I gasped, dry lips too parched
to really care, words creeping out
to those who cared to hear,
that I loved every moment
that I lived
with them,
and I saw even through the cloudy haze
that enveloped me
that they knew already,
just as that stranger did,
the one sitting at the foot of my bed,
one I had never met,
and he saw me
and he knew what I did,
that the end of me was near,
and he said nothing
but
just watched me breathe deeply
with the help of that magic box
attached like an umbilicus
that once gave life from me
to those around me.

My friend was there as always faithful
and I heard her voice pervade
through all the senseless chatter
all around as if I couldn’t hear
or didn’t care.
I heard her say, “I love you, Esmama, ”
and I squeezed her hand so that she knew
that I acknowledge her as all my own
with all the love in my now weakly beating heart.

I felt her strength in me that gave me
all the more and greater reason
to hold on more tightly to that string
that tried to propel me into oblivion,
if I let go.
So, I held on tighter to it
and to her quivering hand
and felt her love course
through my brittle veins
to warm my heart again
where still my life remains.

Then Annie came again
to pull the pillow back
to rest my head again
where she thought it should be,
and I let her do so, like a child,
let her be
the mother as I was in spirit
though not bodily,
and she went back with Fabian,
crossed her legs upon the couch,
and let out deepest sigh.
Oh, I knew why.

She was my child as I am hers for now, tonight,
the last that I shall see,
for I have done it all
and gave my best to Him
and them He gave to me.

I look about with no more promises to keep
and close my tired eyes once more in peaceful sleep,
and while I know not who is by my side
or who will witness it, the time I died,
I rest serenely, filled with calm and peace
this moment that I choose to release
myself to Him who made me fly
this early hour, three, I chose to die.

Resquiam in pace.