Faith
A cynic may scorn as she kneels with her cross
And fingers the beads she may hold
But she has grown weary of life's goading ways
And she only knows she is old
She is weary of life and is fearful of death
And these beads that she holds are her hope
That there's something beyond life's last fleeting breath
That's unseen and unknown to our scope
And the cynic may scorn as she kisses that cross
And kneels with her head bowed low
She's at peace with her god, while he's at a loss
And weary for things he can't know
Y ahora quiero decir algo, aunque brevemente, a la communidad hispana, la que tenia tanto amor para mi mama—diciendole simplemente siempre ‘la Dona.’ Y todos supieron de quien estabamos hablando, sin tener que decir nada mas. Tan como a muchos otros, la Dona ayudo bastante la gente de esta comunidad, con que tenia una connection especial. Me llamo una colega anterior desde Santo Domingo para darnos nuestras condolencias, explicando cuanto ayudo esta mujer, la dona, una mujer de tanta fuerza, intelegencia y amor, y tambien cuanto ayudo a sus hijos y a su familia—diciendo como tantos otros que sentia de Corazon que la dona fue, en cualquier parte, tambien su mama a ella. Me recordo tambien, pero no es que necesitaba que me recuerden, de la broma que yo siempre hicia con mi mama, relajando su pronunciacion en espanol. Zan-a-jor-i-a. Me reganaron, por supuesto, por relajar a una mujer con tanta dignidad, y sobre todo que trataba con todo su fuerze a conquistar el idioma espanol. Otra Montana que queria subir. Pero ojala, y supongo que saben todos, como entendio la Dona, que eso fue todo de amor.
I apologize to Father Sherridan and to those here for my going on perhaps a bit too long. I guess it's just a part of wanting to talk forever about this special lady, like the other part of the song we sang: undertaker please drive slow. But of course, when it's time, it's time, and we are not in control of the clock or the calendar. Forgive me. And now, for this great lady who always wanted to be the last to leave the party, it's time to let her rest. She fought, against fate, against disease, against time itself to the very end. I leaned and whispered in her ear as she lay on her deathbed, though I'm not sure if she could still hear me, that it was okay, that she could rest now and not be so tired. There were two dates in the last several weeks that help explain this final contradiction. January 20 was the date of her last appointment with her oncologist, and it was in some ways from that time that we felt her start to slip away. And that night, as Julia and I slept on a mattress on the floor of her bedroom, keeping her company as she lay grappling with the grimmest of news, I worried to Julia, "She’s not eating." "She’s not reading," Julia responded. "For Pat Welch, that’s an even worse sign."
But I remember now that January 20 was also inauguration day, a day she had waited for for eight long years. I distinctly remember her crying in 2004; when I asked her why she took it so hard, she replied, "but now I might not live to see Bush gone!" So maybe January 20 was important to her in more ways than we think. The other odd date story I just discovered yesterday. We went to CVS, where we went so many many times to pick up the prescriptions that helped keep her alive, and I couldn’t park without crying. I pulled into a handicap space and pulled out my mom’s placard as a sort of reflex.
When I realized what I was doing I smiled, figuring that she and the law wouldn’t dare begrudge me this one last transgression. But as I looked at the placard hanging from the rear view, I noticed the expiration date: February 24, 2009—the very night we had rushed her into Brigham, and the last trip she had taken in our dumpy little car. In shock, I sat back and reflected. It is time, finally, to let this poor woman rest. We love you, and you will always, always be alive with us. "May the road rise to greet you, may the wind be always at your back, may the sun shine warm upon your face, the rain fall soft upon your fields--and until we meet again, may God hold you in the palm of his hand." I love you, Ma. Goodbye.
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