That Morning*


I do remember certain things,
how it was a Sunday in
April, and the daffodils were late,
How the spring sun was out and
poured through the bay windows
happy and warm,
as though nothing was wrong…
as though everything was normal.

I can’t feel it now–the exhaustion
of that awful last night–
blessed by how the brain
softens things with time.

Then I remember
the Hospice nurse coming at dawn,
to relieve me.
I stumbled downstairs,
leaned against the kitchen counter
beyond my limits,
glad to escape the sound.

Time was short, now.
The nurse said “She’s leaving us.”
Two hours passed, and the
nurse called down
so I could
be there at the end.
She gave us time together.
And then, with sudden stillness
it was over.

TOD: 8:24 a.m.

I opened the curtains to let
more sun in, confused by
a world outside that

didn’t seem to notice.
I touched her cold lips,
amazed at the quiet
and stillness the soul leaves behind.

*Moments like this are rare, now, nine months later. But they do rise up without warning sometimes. If you have known loss, you know this. If you know someone who’s had a loss, don’t hurry them along. Let them know you will listen. Grief is a river you cannot push.

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