Fetch

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This is a case of rereading something I wrote a couple of years ago and only now found again.

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I don't know what actually happens when someone dies, but I do believe that nobody leaves alone; that there are guides, friends, angels, relatives, that appear to fetch us home.

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Oh my heart sister, my moon sister Renee. You are missed so so much. If and you have to leave, I know you will be fetched by the most loving of hands and hearts.
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Mostly, this is about loving someone and escorting her/him home......
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Fetch

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I’m not sure if I’m leaning over or looking down. From all appearances, this is a sad day every which way--solemn faces surrounding you with thin streams of small tears, slightly creased and tightened lips, some wispy nervous laughter spilling over you like a sprinkler in the August heat.

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They sit beside you, or at the bed’s edge, sometimes wiping your forehead with an ice cold cotton facecloth and regularly retelling your funny stories, including the one when you drove that guy’s motorcycle off the shorter than expected pier and then had to face his passive bewilderment.
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You are dying, and I have come to fetch you home. I promised you I would do this years ago, when we were still feeling our oats and opportunities, when we kind of promised each other we wouldn’t have to make that final trip alone. Of course, that was after I already knew from Michael, who had been a hospice guide two hundred times he said, that nobody leaves alone anyway. He told me one guy stepped into a small boat captained by his tattered and musty childhood teddy bear, who steered them and that vessel upward and onward.
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I figured I would fetch you and not the other way around. So here I am. Your parents are in front of me, so patient and serene I’m reminded of the story you told me about when you left home for the first time and wrote them love letters every day for two years. Your mother is not crying the way you described she did then. I can see she is delighted to be here, looking at you so lovingly, breathing so quietly that the smile on her face barely moves.
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I’m standing slightly to the left of center, where I’ve always been. I brought the art bag--no fiesta ware on this trip--but I filled the bag with pilot pens and your sister’s marbles, your shells and painting supplies and the pictures of Isabella and the rest of your family including me. In the left sided seam I tucked in an unlimited phone card. I know you will rib me for this decision unmercifully, but hey!, phones might be available someday and if they are, they won’t be free. That’s where the card comes in. We’ve connected all these years. There’s no need to risk changing that. Plus I like the idea of being able to still talk in words.
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So I’m here to fetch you. I may hover to one side so I don’t get in the way, but you’ll know I’m here the same way you always have. Your breathing is irregular and there is a nurse leaning over you. She knows you have only seconds left and she is preparing your family and friends. They are saying their goodbyes. Although you aren’t moving anything, you are whispering about deep love. I smile that you remembered to pass that on as your final word.
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I can tell you for sure you have nothing to worry about. The trip is short and airy. I’ll hold on to your left elbow and guide you in a curved arc that could just as well be a straight-up line. You will look down and whisper one more time, I will laugh when you settle in and find with both comedy and comfort that my invisible rocking chair is still next to yours. We’re still rocking after all these years. How about that?