To A Friend Who Does Not Believe in God

Neither do I, but yesterday, in the hospital,

for two hours, I held the hand of a dying woman—

my friend’s grandmother, 94, barely intelligible,

and in unrelenting pain. Every few seconds,

she slurred what could only be, Help me.

Help me. Help me. Over and over. Nothing

we did worked: not water, not raising or lowering

the bed, not massage, nothing but canned pineapple,

the little piece we would place in her mouth,

the chewing, something she could do; the juice,

a blessing on her dry tongue. But all too soon

the pain bit back down—the moaning, the grimace,

the Help me. The human remembering the animal.

Suffering and more suffering. Until my friend

placed her phone next to her grandmother’s ear

and played Alan Jackson singing “What a Friend

We Have in Jesus,” when, from the first chord

on the guitar, her body stilled, her face went slack.

For two minutes, she went somewhere else,

somewhere quiet, beautiful, free of pain.

We played it again. And again. And when

she fell asleep, when her breathing deepened,

her mouth and eyes still open; when the Furies

stopped their gorging, we were so grateful,

not to God, but to her faith, to her belief in something

better, something kinder, and with fewer teeth.

 

Jose Alcantara, Rattle #81 Fall 2023