As she lay dying Part 2

He stood there, stiff, unmoving, recognizing the solemnity of the moment, recalling as he did so the words of his old commanding officer, who had said that there was nothing that a man could not face while standing to attention.

He stood to attention now. His fingertips almost imperceptibly gripped the seams of his trousers as he stood there. He realized that he had to set an example to his boy, that if he broke now, Marcus would see weakness in the face of adversity. "No coward my son." He thought to himself, certainly the boy had grown too soft in his years on the farm. He had become used more to the ways of a woman, than to the hard reality of life as a man.

There had been no choice. The call to war had wrenched him from both his home and family. He had seen such sights of carnage and bloodshed, that he was unable to speak of such things, even unto God himself.

He noticed the tremors in his mothers hands as she gripped the white sheets, and recalled the white bandages on the front lines which turned red with the blood of his brothers. he looked away, realizing that everything had changed, that he could no longer look upon a such trivial things as a benign white sheet, and not recall those terrible years of death and blood.

He was certain that these thoughts would eventually leave him, but his mind was constantly filled with the sights, sounds and smells of the aftermath of cannon fire and the screaming voice of his best friend after a musket had left him bleeding to death in a place called Antietam Creek.

Yet he was home now. Home and ready to lead his family again. Certainly his years in the war had left a gaping hole in the child's life.

He hardly knew his boy now, and though, at that moment, he knew that his boy was trying to speak to him, and moreover, that he wanted to sweep him into his arms and cry like a baby, for what he had known; what he had seen, and for all of the reasons that he felt that he had failed.

He could not. he could not do that, not let his son and family down by showing such girlish and futile emotion, no.. he slowly shook his head to himself.

Now was the time for action, for strength, for ignoring the pain and becoming a soldier. To soldier on where others would weep and wail. He had to teach himself to drive the horses again. had to learn the subtle commands to ensure that the pair plowed a straight line for the corn. He had to deal with the hogs and cows.. At the thought of this he shuddered inwardly, knowing that his father had intended that he go to the academy, to become an officer, not play in the dirt like a peasant and hope that something better came to him.

He looked down at his mother.. Certainly the end was not far away, but he begged that she return for one moment. One moment that she could tell him what to do. She had to give him at least one small word of instruction, for all that was ahead of him was so daunting a task, that he felt weak at the thought of it. he had no idea how much a load of corn should be sold for. He knew nothing about the chickens, ducks, nor how much to feed the horses.

His childhood had been filled with orders from his father. Then this voice had fallen silent, and shortly afterward, the voice of his captain had filled that void, allowing him to focus his efforts on what had to be done, rather than to sit all day and wonder what that might be.

"wake mother, wake." he urged within his mind, as if calling to some unseen, and unknown God..

Dear God, where was he now.. where was he when the darkness of death descended and took his mother away...

"For the love of God, woman, wake." came the voice again in his mind, and a moment later he looked hurriedly around the room in fear that these words, such were their magnitude and importance, had not been spoken aloud.

He watched as she continued to taunt him with he departure, breathing yet silent, un-speaking and leaving him to the misery of his burden. No direction, no instruction, just the repeating sound of the shallow breathing which imparted no wisdom at all.

As she lay dying.. part 1

The last rays of sunlight were casting shadows on the wall behind the bed. Young Marcus watched, transfixed, as one of the shadows began to look like the face of Jesus.

He reached out towards his father, and was about to touch him to get his attention, but a stern look from his father was enough to remind him that now was not the time for talking. Now was the time for watching life at it's end, the time when he would have to face the undignified end of the life of his grandmother.

She looked different now. Throughout his nine years, he had known her to be sprightly, alive, able to accomplish so much, that at times he thought that she was more like a man than his own father. Indeed it was his grandmother, Pearl, who had broken the two driving horses that took the corn to market. it was her, who only last year, had fixed the barn roof, and had used a ladder that she had made herself from a hickory tree that she had planted on the farm when she was a little girl.

Yet now, with Jesus and the assembled spectators watching over her, she could do no more than grip the white linen sheets and fight for each breath.

It didn't seem fair to Marcus, that everyone, including the preacher had gathered here to watch the end of such a strong woman. They were never there when the hogs had needed feeding, nor when the cows had escaped, and Pearl had to run outside in her nightdress to chase them back to the barn with a broom.No, nobody had been there for Pearl since she lost Leonard, some ten years ago. At first, a trickle of older widowers had called once or twice at the farm, but each one was rejected by Pearl as having no idea about what real farm work entailed.

Father Michaels, the preacher, leaned forward and whispered to mother as she stood next to the bed. Marcus strained to hear what was said, but he couldn't catch the words. Whatever had been said, it caused a single tear to run down mothers face, and she turned slightly away from father Michaels, and looked towards father, as if asking him to help shoulder the burden of that emotion.

But father appeared not to notice. he stared almost directly ahead, as if he was once again on parade in the army. His mouth was tense with concentration, as if fighting the urge to accept his true feelings for that moment.

Marcus could not cry any more.. From the moment that they discovered Pearl in the barn, until the moment that the doctor had left, yesterday morning, he had cried for this moment, the moment that he knew they were all aware was about to happen. yet it seemed strange to him that nobody wanted to be seen crying. It was as if they all had to keep trying to deny their own feelings, just for the sake of embarrassment from the other people who also said that they were friends of his grandmother.

Pearl coughed slightly, a trickle of saliva running down her chin. It was quickly dabbed away by mother, who tried to soothe Pearl, by placing a hand on her shoulder as she did so.

As each breath became more labored, more difficult and more draining, Marcus wanted to leave more and more. This was no way to remember his grandmother, it was as if all of these people had gathered just to witness the pain, the defeat, and the resignation of this strong person.

He looked up again at his father, and was again about to speak, but even though his father did not look back at the boy, his head shook slowly to deny any request that he was about to make.

White hands, hands whiter than they had ever been in her life, bleached further still, by the intense grip upon those linen sheets, accompanied by the harsh rasping sound of her troubled breathing.

Jesus had gone now, Marcus wished that he would return. Perhaps Jesus had abandoned his grandmother to the spirits of the night, perhaps the darkness was arriving to take Pearl with it. Marcus prayed for Jesus, prayed for his grandmother to simply wake, to finally get that one deep breath that she sought and to sit up.. But the labored breathing continued, and Marcus began to pray that this would simply end soon.