January 20: Christ Knows, My Sister Rose, "Fear Not"

Santiago waits for the fish . . . 

"Come on," the old man said aloud. "Make another turn. Just smell them. Aren't they lovely? Eat them good now and then there is the tuna. Hard and cold and lovely. Don't be shy, fish. Eat them."

He waited with the line between his thumb and his finger, watching it and the other lines at the same time for the fish might have swum up or down. Then came the same delicate pulling touch again.

"He'll take it," the old man said aloud. "God help him to take it."

He did not take it though. He was gone and the old man felt nothing.

"He can't have gone," he said. "Christ knows he can't have gone. He's making a turn. Maybe he has been hooked before and he remembers something of it."

Then he felt the gentle touch on the line and he was happy.

"It was only his turn," he said. "He'll take it."

There is something about waiting for an event to happen.  A birthday or wedding.  A fish nibbling on a hook.  Christmas.  Time both stands still and rushes forward at the same moment.  One second can seem like a winter thaw, a slow-motion drip.  One month can seem like bee sting, fast and painful.  

My day has been like this, both frozen and a stampede.  I received a phone call at 5 a.m. from my sister, telling us that we needed to come to the hospital as soon as possible.  Our sister, Rose, was not doing well.  Here comes the first slow motion stampede, where every minute seemed like an expedition to summit Everest.  Slow and precarious.

After we arrived at the ICU, the rest of the morning was sort of a blur of BiPap machine, x-ray, and blood tests.  In the end, it was determined that, basically, her body was tired of fighting for every breath.  One lung had collapsed, and the other had pneumonia.  She had MRSA and was fighting sepsis.  So, Rose was put on oxygen and, after about an hour, at 9:01 a.m., just when my daughter arrived and took Rose's hand in hers to say goodbye, my sister took one last quiet breath and was gone.

Ice Age seconds passed as I waited to see if her chest would rise again.  She remained still and peaceful.

I like to think that Rose is playing cards with my mother right now.  Or that she's sharing a Diet Coke with my sister Sally.  I like to think that Rose has entered a place where time simply doesn't matter or exist.  Seconds are eons, and eons are moments spent in the arms of people who love you.

Saint Marty is a little heartbroken tonight.

A poem for my sister Rose . . . 

Fear Not

by: Martin Achatz

My sister Rose spoke with the Virgin
One night when lightning laced
The sky and thunder rolled
Like a wailing ambulance.
Rose, with black hair, eyes dark
As baker's chocolate. Rose, who listened
To the rain drill the ground, felt terror
In her chest, blooming like a mushroom.
Rose, with Down's Syndrome,
Her speech thick,
Weighing on her tongue like rust.

She knew nothing of atmospheres,
Weather fronts, lightning that traveled
From the ground to the heavens
Like a white hot soul. She knew
Nothing of raining frogs,
Hailstones the size of peach pits.
Hers was a child's fear, as simple
As shadow in a closet.
When she knelt at the foot of her bed,
Folded small fingers,
Her prayers opened like sunflowers
In the still air.

Mother found Rose that night,
Speaking with the darkness.
She looked like moonlight, her words
Agates, smooth, round, polished.
Rose, imperfect since birth,
Slower than summer heat,
Filled the room with light.

Anne came upon her daughter
Like that, too, Mary in the dark,
Her childhood fears sitting
On the windowsill like empty bowls
Waiting for rain.

Mary spread her arms,
Wrapped them around the angel,
Pressing her mouth to his neck.
She tasted lightning and shadow
On his bright skin, swallowed them,
Felt them take root
In her belly. She opened
Her robe, guided his lips
To her boy chest,
Motherhood swelling
In her rose nipple.