The Black Snake
by: Mary Oliver
When the black snake
flashed onto the morning road,
and the truck could not swerve--
death, that is how it happens.
Now he lies looped and useless
as an old bicycle tire.
I stop the car
and carry him into the bushes.
He is cool and gleaming
as a braided whip, he is as beautiful and quiet
as a dead brother.
I leave him under the leaves
and drive on, thinking
about death: its suddenness,
its terrible weight,
its certain coming. Yet under
reason burns a brighter fire, which the bones
have always preferred.
It is the story of endless good fortune.
It says to oblivion: not me!
It is the light at the center of every cell.
It is what sent the snake coiling and flowing forward
happily all spring through the green leaves before
he came to the road.
Emily Dickinson wrote, "Because I could not stop for Death-- / He kindly stopped for me . . ."
Oliver stops for death. She gets out of her car and carries death, cool and gleaming, off the road, places him beneath the leaves of some bushes. As she gets back into her vehicle and drives on, she meditates on the suddenness and inevitability of death.
This morning, I played a service at a local Lutheran church. As with most churches I know, there are what I call "pillars": people who seem as much a part of the building as the pews or altar or pipe organ. This past week, one of the pillars of this church died.
Norman was his name. A kind, older man who always sat in the second pew behind me. I've been playing full-time for this church a little over a year, and Norman always went out of his way to talk to me. Sometimes it was about my wild socks (I like the funky and colorful). Sometimes it was about the postlude I played--I like people to dance out of church, humming a good tune.
The flowers from Norman's funeral were still in the sanctuary this morning. A LOT of them. In front of me was a floral arrangement with a ribbon that read "Grandpa." I thought of all the Sundays Norman sat behind me with his wife. How he would get a small smile on his face if I played something he particularly liked. One Sunday, he whispered to my wife, "That's the way to get 'em moving."
Norman was sick for only a little while. Last Sunday, he was placed in palliative care in the hospital. He died on Monday. Death came quickly for him.
I'm going to miss Norman.
This afternoon, I went to the piano recital of the daughter of one of my best friends. The recital took place in a local funeral home, which may seem a little . . . weird. However, it was perfect. There was a grand piano and plenty of space. Elisa is the name of my friend's daughter. She played a program of music by Kuhlau, Chopin, Bach, and Gershwin. Some of my favorite pieces. It, also, was perfect. Elisa played beautifully, looking confident and relaxed and young. Really young. Just on the cusp of young adulthood.
In the Bible, Christ says, "So you, too, must keep watch! For you do not know the day or hour of my return." That was the gospel passage that was read this morning in church, and I thought of Norman as I listened to it. Then, I went to Elisa's recital in a funeral home. Needless to say, thoughts of mortality have haunted me quite a bit today.
After dinner tonight, I went for a walk with my wife. As I looked down the street, I saw the sky broken open by the setting sun. A bright skin of light sat on the horizon, as if something was trying to enter the heavens or leave them. Maybe it was Norman telling me how much he liked my socks this morning. Maybe it was angels smiling down on the world because of Elisa's music.
Or maybe Death was kindly stopping for a few moments, to remind Saint Marty that light is at the center of every cell.
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