The once noisy room now
hears only mists of whispers
with mixed emotions.
The yellowed chiffon curtain
quits its pleats to spread with
winds’ gentle urging.
Plastic tubes are pleased as
their liquid depleted, leaves
little time left on duty.
Bed linens itch to be relieved
of absorbed scent and weight
of imminent death.
Tears are limited since souls’
reservoirs feel drained of
flow of lifegiving force.
The ill one, focus of this
vigil, stirs to beckon the
nearest ear to her lips.
With weak, yet determined
breath, she entreats her
listener to reassure.
“Have I been loved?”
Her lit eyes would not see
the nods, so hands are held.
“And did I love well?”
is answered with a hushed
huddle of hugs.
“Thank you, my dears.
At the end, that
is all that matters.”
