sliding down the great mother's breast
by peggy tabor millin, ma

Temple Cassara died at 1:20 pm, Thursday, April 24, 2003.

Eight of us had stayed with her since near midnight: five women friends, her partner, her son and his wife.

We birthed her. Like a team of midwives, we guided her “through the maze of her becoming.”1 We wiped her forehead, smoothed her hair, and held a damp rag to her parched lips. We lifted her to her feet when she said, “Up! Up!" until her son held her in his arms, swaying to music only the two of them could hear. We sat, sang, massaged, chanted, and prayed. In turn, we’d say, “Go to the Mother.” “Push out through your crown.” “Let go, let go.” I reminded her of a dream she’d had in which she was told she knew how to die, that it was as easy as sliding down the milk ducts of the Great Mother’s breast.

At last the moment came. A quiet breath, a long silence, then a deep sigh. She was gone.

We women left the room so her son and partner could be alone with her. One woman asked, “What do we do now?”

“We could wash her body,” I said.

A few days earlier, I’d asked the funeral director if people washed bodies any more. She told me the Mormon women did. I found the idea a little scary and didn’t know why I thought of it.

My friends didn’t respond to my suggestion until I repeated it.

“I don’t know how to do this. I’ve never done it before,” one woman said.

“I haven’t either,” I said, “but it must be in our cellular memory. Women have done this for thousands of years.”

I ran water in a basin and asked someone to look for scent to add. I sent someone else for washcloths. Two women busied themselves cleaning the room. In the back of everyone’s mind, including my own, was the knowledge that bodies void waste upon death. When I reached for the button to call the nursing assistant, we all relaxed. With her help, we washed Temple’s body and anointed it with lotion while we sang and chanted. I selected a green dress with sprays of rose flowers for her to wear, a perfect dress for someone who wanted her body buried in the breast of Mother Earth. I combed her hair. Someone placed flowers in her hands.

For me, this final act of washing and dressing her body encapsulated the sacred quality of friendship, the dance of giving and receiving that truly knows no end.

As I left Solace, I saw movement beneath a small dogwood tree, its boughs heavy with red tipped flowers. Large and brown, with circles like eyes on its still damp wings, a newly emerged moth fluttered on the pine mulch readying itself for flight. I stood watching a long time, wanting to ensure its safety. But I left before it flew away. Some journeys must be made alone.

Peggy Tabor Millin, MA, writes, edits, and teaches and coaches writiers through ClarityWorks, Inc., her Asheville based business. She is author of Mary’s Way and other works of fiction and nonfiction. [clarityworksonline.com]

1 From “GirlWoman, WomanGirl,” a poem by Peggy Tabor Millin © 1992