"Because I could not stop for Death -
He kindly stopped for me."
So begins the poem by Emily Dickinson, published posthumously in 1890. I apologize in advance to the English majors out there for butchering the meaning of it.
The flowers are beginning to bloom, the grass is green, the leaves out; why write about the gloomy subject of death? In the West, most of us see death's work only when the very frail who have lived long lives are taken, but not so in my case.
In 2006, my life was full, unmarked by any experience of untimely death. My family was reasonably happy, my grandma with Alzheimer's still alive, and my joyful identity firm and fulfilling, as a homeschool mom to our six healthy children. There was no way I was stopping for anything. Too busy, too full of life.
Then death stopped for our oldest daughter just three days shy of her 16th birthday in June. She had plans to fill her passport with stamps from around the world and to celebrate her birthday by camping in the backyard with her friends, telling her tales of our recent travels. Six years later, our nephew and oldest son's best man, was snatched up at age 21, full of life, and recently engaged.
No warnings.
No consideration.
We were left only memories and the heavy Immortality of death.
"The Carriage held but just Ourselves -
And Immortality."
Death waits for nothing. Cares nothing for the season or time. I take exception to most online analysis of the poem which interpret Dickinson to say that death is a kind gentleman. He knows he has won the day. Death is gentlemanly because he can afford to be.
The Carriage stole away our daughter, Death took the life of our precious daughter into Immortality, and left ugly grief in its wake. Grief taunts and tears at the soul of the family left behind, the special guest at every family or friend gathering. (In an odd way, it is not an unwelcome guest because grief is the price of love, and if I cannot have my daughter back, at least I must be able to grieve for her).
When grief was new, 13 years ago this month, the sun was blazing, making everything grow in full vigour of life. I hated the grass for daring to grow. The blooms that had in previous years been picked to make flower crowns for our daughter's birthday guests, were oblivious to our grief, taunting me with the reminder that they still existed, that evil time marched on, as if nothing had happened.
The poem goes on; it is one of Dickinson's longest poems. Death is revealed to be not as friendly as he initially pretended to be. Death is cold and uncomfortable, and we are not prepared for him. No one recovers from an encounter unscathed or unchanged.
And that is, somehow, strangely comforting.
