Mom has always been so engaged with people and her surroundings. She seems unwilling to become old, a senior whose feeble physical condition and waning senses force her into observing more than participating in life's activities.
I suppose I should celebrate Mom's rebelliousness against the inevitability of aging. Dylan Thomas wrote his magnificent poem "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night" at his father's deathbed, begging him to do something other than sink peacefully into the eternal sleep. He would be glad if he could see my mom.
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray
Do not go gentle into that good night
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
