Plague Journal, For A Friend
A friend revealed last night that her cousin was dying. She had little to say in terms of the detail, but it was clear that she was emotionally spent. Love means grief over the torturous journey that a beloved must take, aware that debilitating bodily pain, as well as the beloved’s mental suffering cannot be parceled out so that others can help with the burden. The caregivers and family members observe, unable to do enough to help. Every departure is excruciating, unique in character, and at some point it will be our turn to say “goodby.”
I offer these words from T. S. Eliot’s magisterial poem EAST COKER.
I
In my beginning is my end. In succession
Houses rise and fall, crumble, are extended,
Are removed, destroyed, restored, or in their place
Is an open field, or a factory, or a by-pass.
Old stone to new building, old timber to new fires,
Old fires to ashes, and ashes to the earth
Which is already flesh, fur and faeces,
Bone of man and beast, cornstalk and leaf.
Houses live and die: there is a time for building
And a time for living and for generation
And a time for the wind to break the loosened pane
And to shake the wainscot where the field-mouse trots
And to shake the tattered arras woven with a silent motto.
In my beginning is my end…
