Her Life

No matter how many jokes you make about dying,

in the end she’s still gone.

Three strikes and she’s out.

Three years and it’s done.

You can keep eye contact on that last day, let the image impregnate your mind and it won’t change the fact that she died.

You’ll never hold her hand again.

The last time you saw her

could have been a normal visit if you took away the invisible monster named death.

But it wasn’t hidden; not anymore.

She’s in a hospital bed in her living room. There’s a nurse clothing her body which now looks more like a skeleton with skin. Two vials of liquid are drained from her.

It looks like poison.

It is poison.

But you brought her sorbet.

You visit, talk, she eats the sorbet and drinks black tea. She takes a shower, does her hair, brushes her teeth, cleans her ears, puts on lotion, gets dressed.

It’s all so simple when you say it

without the sickness.

It’s just a day.

You didn’t know you’d stand witness

to her last shower.

Each movement is a calculated effort. She chose the sorbet because she knew it would

hurt the least coming back up,

yet still wanted to taste something beautiful.

With fierce independence she exhausted herself climbing the stairs.

Moving from one room to the next took extra care

so you hold her hand, which at the time you thought was to stabilize her,

but in reality was the simplest gesture of physical love she could offer.

There were no more hugs.

No more kisses on the cheek.

No more heads on shoulders.

Just one hand clasped in the other.

Somehow, she was still supporting you.

But it’s time to let go; your eyes lock and you fall into them,

sharing gratitude and love.

Knowing it’s the last time you’d see her doesn’t change the way you leave the house,

put on your shoes,

turn the door handle,

and walk away.

Her death didn’t change you;

her life did.