The Assumption of Mary

A meditation

She is going up. Not walking, not flying — going up, the way a note goes up when it is sung. The gold behind her is not a sky; it is what is left when the sky has been taken away.

Look at her. Hands together, mantle drawn close, eyes open and calm, looking straight out at you as she rises. There is no fear in her face and no surprise. She has done this before, in a way — said yes and been carried.

Now look at the angels. They are all around her, and every one of them is making music: a lute, a psaltery, a small organ, and at the bottom two of them with long trumpets, blowing straight up. One carries a vase. One swings a censer. Heaven is not receiving her in silence; it has brought its instruments.

And look at her feet. There is nothing under them but a little curl of cloud and the red wings of a seraph. The earth has let her go without a struggle.

This is what a good death looks like — not the absence of dying, but dying with your hands together and your eyes open, carried by something you cannot see, into music you cannot yet hear. She was the first to go this way. She asks nothing except to be there when it is your turn.

Ask her for it. Not for a long life, though you may have one. For this — to go up like a note, with the angels playing, and someone waiting at the top.