Taken

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, that taught me to sing and kissed away my tears,

gaped and silenced.

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

replaced by the stench of sickness.

Your arms and hands that nursed me embraced and comforted me,

unfeeling and unmoving.

Your modesty was laid bare by the loose-fitting hospital gown,

no indignity spared trying to spare your life. Yet,

Death rattles ravaged each breath; I held mine, not knowing if you would

have another.

At last, I gently hugged your fragile shoulders and kissed your forehead;

"I love you, Mum."

I knew your love, too.

Death came for you that night,

Tuesday, March 17, 1987.