My mother's an expert in one thing: br sending people she loves into the other world. br The little ones, the babies--these br she rocks, whispering or singing quietly. I can't say br what she did for my father; br whatever it was, I'm sure it was right. br br It's the same thing, really, preparing a person br for sleep, for death. The lullabies--they all say br don't be afraid, that's how they paraphrase br the heartbeat of the mother. br So the living grow slowly calm; it's only br the dying who can't, who refuse. br br The dying are like tops, like gyroscopes-- br they spin so rapidly they seem to be still. br Then they fly apart: in my mother's arms, br my sister was a cloud of atoms, of particles--that's the difference. br When a child's asleep, it's still whole. br br My mother's seen death; she doesn't talk about the soul's integrity. br She's held an infant, an old man, as by comparison the dark grew br solid around them, finally changing to earth.