My little finger  is dying

just the tip of the little finger

of my left hand

I carry my secret carefully

let it hang like a single gold coin

in a cluster of other fingers

still trying to

stay alive

But the word is out

and they will have to be ready too

when their time comes

My Chinese lady-doctor

who does not believe in acupuncture

    diagnoses my ailment

     in impeccable Latin:

  “Digitus nervix immobilis”,

         which means, of course,

          “Your little finger is dying.”

Numb and heavy now

it will spread like a stain

  of invisible ink

  into the other fingers

     of my left hand,

         down my left arm

             across my chest

  then up the right arm

         into the fingers

            of my right hand:

a lovely rainbow of death.

I am told the dying process

may skip across the torso for awhile

if I take hot baths and long walks

and eat lots of garlic

But infallibly, like fall of night,

it will descend

into the nether limbs

hip to thigh to ankle

  until my feet, hanging there

  in my black Wallabees, wait

     to be declared officially dead!

But I promise:

I will leave my liver

to the liver-bank

my kidneys to the kidney-bank

my eyeballs to the eyeball-bank

and my meager monthly salary

in perpetuity

to the Committee for the

                  Rehabilitation

of  Downtown Providence

No, I will not go

like Howard Hughes

I will cut my hair

and clip my nails

and stay clean and neat

till the very end

I will not, like Damon Runyan

asked to be cremated

and to have my ashes strewn

lovingly, by helicopter,

over Manhattan Island.

With my luck

a brisk wind

would come up

off Sandy Hook

and blow me to Bridgeport

No!  I will not imitate anyone

I will go in my own way,

covered with unhealed wounds

  uncanceled debts

     and no collateral -

heavy to look at

  with my heavy hands

     and heavy limbs

  but easy ... easy to carry

Lying there I will begin

to dream about the end -

water all around me

cool and sweet to the lips

One dream recurs

I am a child,

suddenly a child again

let loose after hours

in a Baskin-Robbins Ice-Cream Parlor

free to sample

all thirty-five delicious flavors

O creamy eschaton!

Fully awake now

I notice that all sounds

and sights and tastes

are keener ... brighter ...

I admit that I am jealous

I am jealous because I have never had

a near-death experience

But I have been near life so many times,

I have felt the touch of life

and have trembled at the touch

So even in the face of death

I am willing and eager

to testify on behalf of life

But I need more time

there is never enough time

and death robs us

of the little that is left

I have work to do

friends to be loved

enemies to be forgiven

words to be shouted against the storm

shadows to be dispelled

that still blot out the sun!

Besides, I am bound by a pact

I made long ago with Beauty

that before I died

I would shape one word

one cry, one song

and let the sound of it reach everywhere

so that no one might escape from love

I cannot describe the power of this word

but the thought

of bringing it to life in my life

fills me with joy

Now, after the word of life

there will be time for death

I have made my plans

eyes closed, hands folded on my lap

I will lean back in my black vinyl lazy-Boy

and fall like a sash weight

No need for choice or effort

or good intentions

The weight of my body

will carry me down ... down

to the place of rest

without pain or passion

I will give myself over ...

According to our custom

my body lay overnight

in the silence of the House Chapel

stretched out in the very place

where I used to pray

I wore a borrowed Cappa

and a new pair of shoes

bought just for the occasion

plus a large Rosary

locked in once and for all

under my rigid hands

I lay there through the night

and watched my brothers and friends

as they watched me

baffled by the choices

they were free to make

Should they offer me honor, respect

puzzlement or honest complaint

at promises unfilled, our common woe?

They watched me carefully and courteously

  still wondering who I really was

  and wondering too what it would be like to die

I know what I wanted to tell them

that death always defends its own secrets

that it always favors darkness

that it feeds on faith

and the rush of heart to heart

(you want to be with the one you love)

whatever the shape or color of their gaze

I knew they always looked kindly upon me

and I know they will be kind to my sisters

and even lie a little on my behalf -

to enhance the memory

of my piety and usefulness

Now there is only my body

and the place it occupies in this place

a body lightened and sweetened

and ready to be lifted up

Strange to speak of the body in this way

but my spirit has already fled

and I am, even now, free to begin

my new calling:

    to cultivate the ways of love

    and to teach the art of dying

       v

A R S    M O R I E N D I 

The Art of Dying

  Dominic Rover, O.P.

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