Visiting Hours Over

Just sitting, I'm knitting, dreaming as fan blades idle slowly with an incoming wind. The hands circle the clock marking the passage of time into soundless history. It is late, almost eight, a nurse appears at the door - "Time to leave pretty soon." My hands cradle his face as I kiss the salty brow of his altered memory. Tears flowing, I'm going; our eyes meet and we soul mates sing a hymn together. The dream is understood by musician and poet. Rhythm has struck the right keys. What's more, in close rapport, his lips form - a mute "Bye, Bye." With a rare smile, he leaves me. I watch the fan blades reverse. My prayers answered - escorted by a faint, outgoing breeze.