By Edward Raab
(Written on the first day of working with the dying at San Fils, the Destitute
and Dying home run by the Missionaries of Charity in Port-au-Prince, Haiti)
I looked into the face of a black Christ this morning
His eyes lowered in the awareness of his coming death
His breathing shallow
His bed his crucifix
I assume the responsibility of his crucifixion
by my denial of the plight of these dear people
His stigmata the AIDS that wrack his body
I kneel at the foot of his cross and ask for forgiveness
Too late for the relief of pain
I give what little I have
I anoint him with oil and caress his feet
His skin parched like the lips of Christ
I feel the heat of his body as
I move my hands over him.
I feel his bones,
I search for answers
Does he know I am here?
It matters not
I sit and hold his hand
His presence his gift to me
I rise to leave
I squeeze his hand
Did I feel a pull?
It matters not
By Ed Raab
(Written on the second day)
The flies gather
No life to brush them away
Urine soiled swaddling clothes overwhelms me
Lips parched, eyes closed, I search for breathing
His mother arrives
She lowers herself onto the head of his bed
She sits upright and moves his head onto her lap
She looks for life
Pouring milk between his lips
It forms a river down his neck
Her tears anoint his face
His lip quivers
"Dead man living", says sister.
By Edward Raab
(Written on the third day)
A battered hearse greets us at San Fils
I glimpse a shrouded body inside
Is it him?
Did he wait for me?
I don my gloves, protection for my body
My heart protected by years of non-awareness
I'm told we are connected, he & I
How do I know?
I approach the ward
Thirty men in one room united by death
I see his mother by his bed
He has suffered too long
She invites me to approach the bed
She smiles and grabs my hand
She points above,
"Jesus", she says
Tears stream down her face
I look down at him
Eyes alert, breathing stronger
I share her joy
We are connected!
Last updated April 23, 1998