Whispering Identity
                       by Odin Roark


Dampness invades graying hair
held tenderly in my right hand,
hoping the touch of my left upon her face
might vanquish the invading cold release,
the still clinging question.

Rising to caress my fingertips,
her last breaths evoke memories
so warm,
yet so icy in their message.

Patience moves my palm upon her forehead,
awaiting conveyance,
who am I,
from where,
why a life lived so many years without answers?

Eyes close on this once young mother,
delivering death of her first born,
sufferance imposing loss of voice,
loss of sound
shock pleading to heal,
months of remorse,
until…

Healing rose from an abandonment,
adoption of a week old child,
swaddled in identity lost,
but a tender surrogate,
a motherless child,
made it hers to raise,
hers to love.

“Guilt takes no prisoners,”
she exclaimed so many years later.
“It is not enough to do the right thing.
Giving merely suspends reality,
all the way to one's last breath.”

Now…such finality.

Gazing at a still body,
I imagine that first day,
when her caring eyes
must have delved beyond my vision,
conveying kaleidoscopic blur,
starting memories without form,
a baby’s delayed transcendence,
for this moment.

How precious
this wilted body before me,
this woman who became
my light in the dark,
whose clothes I will now fold,
arrange,
and...

Bedside lights dim untouched.

Two mothers,
one son,
spirits together again in darkness ,
identities at peace,
shadowed smiles shared,
side by side hearts,
becoming as one in a whispering identity.