Abstract
I saw you both at the end of the silent room.
Yellow warm light entering through the window curtains,
lightening you like in a museum of fine arts,
coloring your dying mother's pale face with such natural mastery.
On the couch, you are the son holding your dying mother on your lap.
You are one, in marble color.
Rareness, to be allowed in the museum of life.
You look at her, she stares at you, not at heaven,
with that warm light entering the scene.
I witness.
A familiar sculpture emerges from memory. Michelangelo's Pietà?
Yes, I witness you, Pietà.
But different, still warm, breathing, living sculpture. Pietà reverse.
There she is, your dying mother, on your lap,
her arm falling down, strengthless, hand touching the floor.
There she is, the woman who gave you life, love, guidance, and blessings,
pale skin made of shadows, emaciated body breaking into pieces,
departing between your arms.
A mixture of death and love…
A mixture of musty fetor and perfume in her blanket…
It smells like death and love.
And I witness.
Pietà reverse.
She now breathes silence, not air. Apnea.
Apnea, whispering: Mother, are you dead?, Shhh…
As if the lumina connected you beyond death
and the laws of nature.
Apnea, presence: Mother, are you dead?, I'm here.
Pietà reverse.
Apnea, remembrance: Mother, you live in here. And you take your dying mother's hand to your chest.
On your lap, your mother dies.
Apnea. Apnea. Apnea.
She now breathes silence
and gave you her air to breathe. Life. Legacy.
Pietà reverse.
She dies staring at your crying eyes,
her faith was you, always you,
her God, not heaven.
I stare. I dare not to move.
Silence. It surrounds my body as velvet.
Memory. Infinity in me.
Pietà reverse,
so real, so rare, so beautiful.
In my soul,
Pietà reverse is still warm, breathing, living sculpture.
Like in a museum of fine arts.