Somewhere
She strains toward heaven
arms outstretched
like a child wanting to be held
then falls back, outspent
subdued by gravity's ponderous sway
How long must she stay
suspended as she is
between fire and air
between here and there
incarnation and release?
Do not rage, mother
(leave the raging to the poet
and his father, now both long dead
despite the raging)
Go gently. Go.
Let go
we did not know.
we did not know it was so hard
so hard to go
Ceremoniously
we bathe the body
that gave us life
and gave
and gave
we watch
and wait
match breath for tortured breath
and then
a transmutation
as imperceptible
as hushed
as a sigh
or the absence thereof
The silent inrush
of imponderable light
And now it is we
who are suspended—
dangling as we are
between grief and relief
holding on and letting go
the notion of Death
and the reality of having been left—
the widest distance of them all.
Evelyn Gilbert Mullins
July 13,1928 - December 6,1998
Sharlee has an MA in humanities from Brigham Young University. She taught at BYU for a number of years before giving up academia for the writing life. She has published essays, short stories, articles, and poetry in The Southern Literary Journal, Women's Studies, Irreantum, Wasatch Review International, and BYU Studies. She has also published a novel and three picture books for young readers. Sharlee lives in Pleasant Grove, Utah with her husband, their five children, a very literary dog named Kipling, an escape-artist cat named Houdini, and a stuck-up beta fish named Flame.
