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 laid bare by a loose-fitting hospital gown,

no indignity spared trying to spare your life. Yet,

Death-rattles ravaged each breath;

I held mine. Would you have another?

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

"I love you, Mum."

Your love was never in doubt.

Death took you that night,

Tuesday, 3/17/87.