A Morning*

by HemmingPlay

I remember certain things,
how it was a Sunday in
April, and the daffodils were late.
How the sun was out and
poured through the bay windows
of the bedroom, happy and warm,
like nothing was wrong,
like everything was normal.

I can’t feel it now, the exhaustion
of that awful last night,
blessed by how the brain
softens certain things with time.

Then I remember
the Hospice nurse coming at dawn,
relieving me.
I ran downstairs,
leaned against the kitchen counter
beyond my limits,
glad to escape the sound.

Time was short, now.
The nurse said she was leaving us.
Two hours passed, and the
nurse called down to me
to be there at the end.
She gave us some time together.
And then, in sudden stillness, it was over.

TOD: 8:24 a.m.
I opened the curtains to let
the sun in, confused by
a world outside that

didn’t seem to notice.
I touched her cold lips,
amazed at the quiet
and stillness the soul leaves behind.

 

*Moments like this are rare, now, nine months later. But they do rise up without warning sometimes. If you have known loss, you know this. If you know someone who’s had a loss, don’t hurry them along. Let them know you will listen. Grief is a river you cannot push.

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2 Comments to “A Morning*”

  1. Thank you so much for sharing a deeply moving and emotional time and event! This is so uplifting for those who have faced this or will in the future!!

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