The End, Seen Two Ways

When I joined a poetry community, I did so because I knew I had limited time with someone very important to me. Death was always part of her diagnosis; we both knew it. But I suppose neither of us was ready for how grace abandons a dying body, steals colors and ruins the harmony we call joy.

In the final months, most words meant nothing. An empty can left on the kitchen counter. Once enjoyed, now discarded. Do you have plans for the weekend? I can’t find my car keys. I’ll meet you at the door. I looked for a place to make words worthy, a place where phrases could carry this haunting ache that ran alongside the edge of my sorrow. Poetry gave me a container, so I wrote through apprehension and fear and grief and quite a bit of regret.

It’s been a year since M died. I love her no less. Our last day together, captured in this poem, is now holy.