Last Things

December 4, 2003

You lie in the bed
facing the window, your eyes
open to His arms, closed
to all you’ve left behind.

Surrounded by old pictures of you looking
at violet sea shells with me on the beach
and feeding Gabe at your breast
in the middle of a windy marsh.

Sandlewood Frankencense lit,
the kind you meditated with every morning.
Dad playing your brown elk skin drum
to the beat of your favorite Celtic music.

Covered with your floral silk night gown
so we can pretend you’re sleeping.

Gabe asks if the green necklace
he gave you last Christmas
can be cremated.
Dad says no, but it can be placed in the urn.

I was going to make you a CD
of our favorite songs
for your birthday. That will
have to rest beside your ashes.

A man in black and white comes in.
He acts like he’s getting ready
to ship off a package,
but life is not as simple as his coat and tie.

As he carries your body outside,
your spirit stays upstairs nestled between framed memories.

Is she wearing any rings?

No, her fingers got too thin. She had to take them off.

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