I Saw Death

I saw death.

Though you were

gone long before the end,

I knew your day had come.

Your bright, clear, blue eyes that once twinkled at a private joke,

or scolded when pushed too far,

now clouded, unseeing.

Your mouth and voice, that taught me to sing,

and kissed away my tears, that laughed till you cried;

gaped and silenced but for breath rattles of the dying.

I held mine. Would you have another?

Your curls, a tiny reward from your first fight with this dread disease,

Unfurled and limp, stuck to your head in a feverish sweat.

The calming scent of your perfume, and

lotion applied after dishes and chores,

replaced by the stench of sickness.

Your arms and hands that nursed me,

Embraced, comforted me,

that disciplined, directed me;

stuck with tubes, unfeeling, unmoving.

One week of lucidity,

Recognizing husband and each child, but

Losing that grip before father appeared.

Your modesty laid bare by a loose-fitting hospital gown,

no indignity spared to spare your life. Yet,

your life wasted away.

At last, I gently hugged your fragile shoulders,

and kissed your forehead one last time;

"I love you, Mum."

Tears streaked down my teenaged face.

Your love was never in doubt.

Death took you that Tuesday night,

March 17, 1987.

This is a revised version of a poem previously published as "Taken: I Saw Death," by the same author.