When It Was Over

I didn't get a "goodbye" before you drew your last breath.

Your body had been tethered to machines and lines,

all matter of life-saving and -sustaining equipment,

but nothing could bring you back from what was done.

We don't often think of how our bodies function,

or how easily they can turn against us in an instant,

but you had been like a textbook to the doctors

from the age of 12 onward, never ceasing, until age 52.

When the doctor asked if we wanted to donate your body

"to science" (ever to science), I wanted to yell out a "No!"—

but it didn't matter anyway since you were a diabetic

and thus your body was exempt from being pulled apart,

limbs and organs harvested out in a cold and sterile room.

When it was time to leave you behind in that hospital room,

I couldn't help the tears that gushed as the gut-punch came:

"Oh. We're leaving without her. This feels so wrong."

A glance back made me realize how small you were

and the world itself seemed crushing in comparison.

It's been eight years, a small lifetime of chances,

and I still think back to the sunny day as we drove

back home without you anywhere to be found.

No matter what I threw away or donated or buried,

you were like an invisible entity that couldn't be ignored.

But now, so many years apart between when you stopped

and when I tried to ground to a halt in self-induced stasis,

I think of you not with regret or wistfulness or even sadness.

Because you? You had fought almost all your life, ceaselessly,

and it was time to hang up your life's boxing gloves.

I don't know if we'll meet again—however that works, no one knows—

but there's still tomorrow for me to be grateful and glad

that I had you as my mom for as long as I did.

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