passage

i won't ever forget the family from the Congo
who moved their patriarch's head of the bed away from the wall so they could surround him.
who put on an impromptu display of voice and rhythm that pretty much shattered the myth of white supremacy in the first two notes.

they sang and drummed on various surfaces and kissed his head.
they laughed and cried and hugged each other and arranged his blankets.
they prayed and sang some more and pressed a worn olive wood cross into his palm.
i soaked it all in, all the while watching his chest rise and fall until it didn't anymore.
they laced arms over shoulders forming a tight huddle around the bed crying and praying and thanking God for his safe passage.

the intern arrived and greeted the family, moving to the bedside to listen for heart sounds. one of the brothers looked at me and smiled - the absurdity of hospital procedure never being more evident.

'time of death 3:45', he said with a solemn nod.
i think he learned that from t.v.
and anyway, i beg to differ. i just witnessed the beginning of something - i'm not sure what - i just know it wasn't an ending.

it was a celebration of life and family and love and of death, unlike any i have seen since.

i want those people there when i die.