This article is based on this Dutch article of Martijn Benders

I Saw How She Lay Embedded in Death

My mother is on her deathbed. The doctor called yesterday, but as soon as I noticed the calls from an unknown number, I already knew it was something serious.

This morning, I wrote two beautiful poems about it—and yesterday, I expressed my gratitude to her.

So now, I am truly the last of the Mohicans. I am the eldest descendant of the Benders clan, which is why I was given my grandfather’s name, Martinus. It’s a tradition in my family to pass that name down to the eldest descendant, but that’s a tradition that ended with me. I had no desire to have children simply to fulfill a tradition.

(In general, I’m not particularly fond of this gene circus anyway)

The nurse mentioned the morphine protocol again. I sincerely hope that I’ll never have to hear that term in my own life. But thankfully, my mother doesn’t seem to be suffering as much as my sister did.

Since writing is my primary way of processing trauma—and giving the dead a voice is the domain of both poets and shamans—for all these reasons, I will continue to write, even here, even while Operation B.B. is underway.

In that as well, certain voices of the dead are heard once again. Sadly, the dead in this world seem to go to great lengths to ensure us poets and shamans have plenty of work to do.

Kind regards,

Martinus Benders

Wanem

[Forgotten words](adj.) 1) most desired, most longed for
2) very beautiful, bright, radiant [an old superlative form of waan ‘desired, longed for’]