The Land to Which Dying Sparrows Fly

Simon entered the hospital room and bent down over his mother’s immobile body to kiss her cheek. She lay quietly on the bed as if lost in a dream but upon feeling his presence opened her eyes and smiled brightly. The ability to produce facial expressions was the only motor function that remained once the disease had ascended through her spine and vanquished all the others leaving her paralyzed. He saw she was moving her lips, struggling to articulate words that came out as feeble whispers. He put his ear close to her face.

           “I’ve been waiting for you.”

           He had been away for many years but his mind had always raced home when he thought of her and remembered the loving and kind person she had always been. She honored her name – Aurora – for she was the early light of dawn, a sparkling light of clarity that would shine when needed, dispelling the darkness when it invaded the souls of those she loved.

           It’s not that I have forgotten, – he wrote once in a letter he’d hoped would say more – it’s that I have lost sight of the road leading me home.

           While Simon followed the ambulance that drove his mother to his brother Greg’s house, a Paul Simon song – “How The Heart Approaches Its Yearning” – came on the radio. Every time he heard that song he would smile to himself. But it was a smile that denoted sadness rather than joy, anxiety more than relief. The appeal of this song was that it made him think about the yearning within his own heart, the perennial longing which had always been difficult for him to define. Simon suffered and yet was, at once, comfortable in his suffering. And he didn’t know why.  

           Simon chatted with his brother over a glass of wine before turning in. “Let me know immediately if you need me,” said Greg before retiring to his own room.

           Simon got into his bedroll next to his mother’s bed, put on his glasses and opened his book. However, he couldn’t concentrate, plus, he was exhausted from the journey to Pennsylvania all the way from Mexico City. Simon looked over at his mother. Her face was still rather young-looking; she had always managed to defy aging until the paralysis had come on in earnest. After that, she began to show the expected signs of fatigue. For someone as active as she had always been it had to have been hard to face. But she had never complained.

           Reflections of his mother’s life filled Simon’s mind as he lay there, overcome by the affliction that invades one’s heart when the death of a loved one is imminent.

           Aurora was born in Celaya, Mexico to middle-class parents. She was the youngest of three daughters. Her father, Guillermo, a civil engineer, recognized early on how bright she was, always excelling in school. But he’d been a rigid man who disciplined his children with a heavy hand. Compounding the problem was her mother, Anastasia, a pretty but egotistical society girl who had neglected her daughters. So, Aurora had forged her own way through life. Her intelligence, love of science and zest for service, had led her on a path to medicine despite her father’s objections. Nevertheless, she persevered and was a brilliant student.

           Aurora was also very beautiful, catching the eye of many of her male classmates. But she ignored them all; her studies always came first. Then, in her second year of medical school, she met Martín, a bright but unusual young man with an inherent sadness that was hard to define or reach. But she fell in love anyway and almost without conscious thought they were married and starting a family and, although she had postponed her education, she was happy to follow Martín to the United States where he would do his specialty training.

           Her three children, Greg, Lucinda, and baby Simon were the purpose and joy of her life as she navigated the rough waters of matrimony – Martín turned out to be difficult to live with. He was self-centered and often taciturn, lost in endless ruminations of how life had been unfair to him, while Aurora, on the other hand, remained cheerful and sought out endless intellectual endeavors. She learned to play the piano and speak several languages. She tended to her garden, read profusely, volunteered at the Red Cross. Despite often regretting not having finished school, she felt fulfilled intellectually and emotionally. Aurora had sacrificed it all for her children and that’s all that mattered in her heart.

            Without wanting to, Simon descended into a deep sleep.

         An hour must have gone by when suddenly he felt a strong hand tug at his left shoulder. Shaken, he awoke thinking it was Greg but no one was there. He glanced to his right, towards his mother’s bed, and a chill ran down his spine, for in the tenuous light his mother’s face looked skeletal – a skull peered straight up towards the ceiling with hollow eyes. He covered his face and rubbed his eyes fearing his mind was playing outrageous tricks on him. When he looked back, the vision had vanished, and Aurora looked normal once more; her eyes were now visible and sparkling. Once again, she appeared to be saying something, so he took her hand and brought his face close to hers.

           “Don’t worry about me. I saw where I’m going and I feel happy,” Aurora whispered.

Simon was overwhelmed by this revelation. “Tell me," he said, softly.

           Aurora held his gaze and struggled to muster the strength to describe her vision; the words were barely audible, but they were clear. “I was lying in a glass box that had been placed in a field of wildflowers of every color imaginable. The sky was a wondrous blue; a sparrow was perched on the branch of an unusual-looking tree.” She went on. “Standing around the box were many people I knew and some that I didn’t know. All were young and smiling. I recognized my parents and my aunt, Paula, whom I loved so dearly. I saw my sister, Maria Luisa, and her husband. I was overcome with joy when I saw Alicia Wences, my lifelong friend; I had been at her side when she died. So don’t worry about me Simon, my beautiful boy.” Aurora grew silent, a look of complete exhaustion on her face and then closed her eyes.

           Before Simon lay back on his bedroll she was still breathing, he made sure of that. Simon struggled to stay awake but once again, fatigue overcame him despite the gnawing, empty feeling in his heart.

           He didn’t know how long he slept when he felt the hand once more – the same, strong grip, the insistent shaking on his shoulder. Again, no one was there. Again, a chill ran down his spine, so he turned towards his mother. She didn’t look skeletal this time, but she was no longer breathing. He forced himself to crawl to her side and, finally, after much denial, his fingers probing desperately for a pulse, accepted she was gone. The unbearable heaviness in his heart was only partially relieved by noticing that she was smiling. 

           The following day Simon flew home closing his eyes during the entire flight in painful contemplation.

           Simon had always been different, unconventional you might say, though he tried hard not to be. But he felt unfulfilled with the usual superficial things other boys enjoyed. Although he didn’t dislike those things, for him the world had so much more to offer and by tapping into his profoundly sensitive side he found the surprises and enjoyment in life were boundless. He never tired of observing prolonged sunsets or listening to the crashing of ocean waves or the cacophony of raindrops on a windowpane. Just in looking up at a sky full of stars or the adventure of traveling a country road there was sheer delight. He could also feel moved by a beautiful sonnet, a near-perfect musical performance or the unexpected softness upon kissing a baby’s cheek.

           But there were also many reasons to feel pain. He detested inequalities and injustice: How could a world of such immense beauty also have starving children, unimaginable suffering from disease, bully politicians, greed, war? How could someone’s heart be broken (as his had) to the point of feeling that love is just a painful illusion? He felt that there is a duality in life where happiness and sadness neutralize each other leaving only that well-known state of longing.

           He also wanted to be a writer, as he needed to find an outlet for all those deep emotions but realized he had seen very little of the world. So, he began to travel always with notebooks tucked in a cluttered backpack, jotting down his experiences. He found odd jobs along the way to keep going when the money ran out and lived an almost monastic life as he trekked from Europe to the Middle East, then down to Africa. He worked on ships earning passage to Australia and Japan. He then found his way back to the Americas, working his way up to finally settle permanently, after three years, in Mexico City where he found a job as a proofreader in a publishing company.

           There he also met Lucía, a beautiful, dark-haired, mysterious woman, with eyes that blazed with the passion and brightness of the sunrise. He had found a comforting niche in her arms and the softness of her skin against his as he held her in his arms was unbridled, almost decadent joy. But their relationship ended in perplexing turmoil after six months of living together. Quite simply, she left him with a broken heart and with the unwanted ambivalence which always seemed to be the rule in the story of his life.

           Despite it all, Simon persevered in his writing, the steady job affording him the time and tranquility to finally begin to write. But his early efforts had met without success. He kept the rejection letters on a nail next to his desk as a constant reminder that he needed to try harder. Now, back at work, despite having slept little, he labored tirelessly to make up for the lost time. And by doing so he was also trying to erase the feelings of emptiness he had had at finding his apartment cold and dark. Lucía had moved out while he was away, and the sight of clothing left behind and the scent of her perfume still lingering in the drafty halls compounded his grief. So, that particular afternoon, in order to combat his melancholy, he worked steadily, oblivious to time, until nighttime fell, and fatigue overtook him forcing him to stop and go home.

           Then, something wonderful happened!

           It was a large, covered parking lot and the fluorescent lights shone brightly; his Volkswagen van was the only vehicle left as if waiting loyally to take him home. But he felt strangely afraid at being the only person there. As he was putting the key into the car door an eerie feeling made him glance over to the far-right corner of the lot where there was a stairway that led up to the street. A familiar chill ran down his spine when he saw his mother standing there! She stood quietly and once more with only the hint of a smile on her face. And yet, she looked tranquil as she gazed into Simon’s eyes – she was enveloped in a soft but definite light. The vision lasted for less than a minute and then it began to fade.

           When she had finally disappeared, Simon, awestruck, hurriedly opened the door and sat behind the wheel. He put the key into the ignition but, confused and moved by what he had seen, leaned his head forward on the steering wheel and covered his eyes. He felt deeply moved but oddly relieved that the burden in his heart had somehow been lifted and, at that overwhelming moment of clarity, he did what he had not been able to do, he began to weep without restraint, uncontrollably. His tears kept falling, soaking the steering wheel and his shirt sleeve, as he cried for who knows how long?

           The following day, recalling the events of his mother’s death and the visions he had experienced both at her bedside and in the parking garage, an irresistible urge took hold of him, and he wrote a poem:

           The night I saw my mother,

                      Like starlight in the night,

           The unseen world came before me,

                       As I gazed upon the ethereal sight.

           She did not move, nor did she speak,

                      But stood transfixed in beauteous light,

           Revealing signs of utter peace,

                      Content to have met with death last night.

           And in her moment as an apparition,

                      Just prior to her flight,

           With her eyes she spoke of love,

                      And vanished out of sight.

           She was taken so untimely,

                      Though she was not so very young,

           She’d had time to spread her word,

                      But her kindly feats remained unsung.

           Only time shall redeem them,

                      As we take our turns you and I,

           To meet with her inside the land,

                      To which dying sparrows fly.

           As he read it, and reread it, he didn’t think it was very good; it was just something he had written in a flash of desperation. There was always a foreboding at considering himself a failure. Writing was a catharsis only, you might say. And, although he admired the old poets, he wanted to be a modern poet and write verses without constraints thus making it more likely to capture the cadence of the sea, the rustling of the wind, the trials of the heart, with plain words, not majestic ones that flowed with arrogance. So, he put the poem aside, adding to the clutter of papers on his desk.    

           Enrique, the chief editor, wandered into Simon’s office a week later needing a manuscript he knew Simon was working on. Not seeing him at his desk he began to shuffle through the papers lying there and came across the poem.

           Enrique sat down and read it several times and, contrary to Simon, liked it. He decided he would ask Simon about it later as he was well aware that Simon’s mother had recently passed away so the poem, he figured, described some sort of extraordinary experience.

           It was Enrique who urged Simon to send the poem to a friend of his who ran a literary magazine in New York City. Ever doubting himself, it took Simon six weeks to actually build up his nerve and ignore the deeply-rooted certainty that he was destined to fail in everything he attempted – that was one of the ever-present sentiments cruelly instilled in him by his father since childhood. But to Simon’s surprise and delight, his poem, titled “Starlight”, was accepted for publication with enthusiasm. It later even appeared in an anthology of poems by young aspiring writers. He finally felt optimism (although with trepidation) about his career as a writer and, for the first time, about himself.

           It’s funny how life proceeds in an endless stream of events that at first might seem incongruous only to have a sudden realization – an epiphany so to speak – of how these moments define one’s life. It is this particular, personal singularity from which all meaning is given to a life that, a priori, has none. He realized this was the subtle message his mother, Aurora, had left him with her passing.

           Aurora visited Simon three more times during his lifetime. All occurred during low points in his life when his will would seem to falter. He found that even his success as a writer never entirely mitigated the pain and she would come back to remind him that he had cultivated his mind in order to strengthen his spirit. But she would also come to renew in him the courage to follow his heart in order to capture his dreams.

           Before his own passing, many years later, Simon wrote one last poem:

           The holy men say it one way

           The science men another.

           Regardless, the same settings

           Of stray light wander on and on.

           Onward, please…go make a world,

           Go tell time to confront

           The elemental point,

           The particle derived from nothing.

           We are one with it,

           We are nothing without it,

           We are the dust that flows forever

           Through the bowels of the void.

           This time Simon was satisfied with what he had written; it no longer mattered to him what anybody thought or felt about it, or even if anybody would ever read it. He knew he had reached a pinnacle, the end of a long journey, full of adventure and knowledge, where the only important thing was his realization that all things are in unity with the universe.

           He also knew that soon he would see his mother, Aurora, again.