*
She watched her father die while hospice helpers scurried around the room and war news played on the TV. It was a long time since he'd given her a sign that he was still there, a strong man resting inside the shell of his debility. Now he couldn't eat, couldn't speak, couldn't gesture, couldn't will his own movement, yet by no means was he at rest, no, not yet. The breathing broke into the room like the sound of a big body heaving. What was the rightness of this? Such a strong man rendered powerless and dependent on people who couldn't help him, except by being there. Being there. And she was there. Her own bulky body was like a plug keeping the water from draining.
Then the plug faltered and the water began draining and her father turned himself over to God. Or was turned. And the weakness that everybody said was his dying, not really him ("Isn't it sad to see him go?") became revealed as his true nature, only disguised for a few years by the gestures of strength. This was his body, this weakness. It was more itself even as it broke its bonds and the muscles and sinews left for wherever it was that they went. His core was this weakness and dependence.
It made him like a beast of burden, a gentle one, that God was riding into its pen to rest. Just for a little while.
*
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