Billie
Billie died today.
Respiratory failure,
quiet and painless.
She just went away.
I sat beside her bed,
watching her breath,
the blue pulse in her neck.
She lay on her right side,
pale, fetal-curled,
facing the wall,
worn out, used up.
Hospice told me
that the only thing
keeping her alive
was the oxygen being given
though the clear plastic mask
covering her nose and mouth.
There were drops of condensation
inside the mask,
making most of her small face indistinct.
The parts I could see clearly –
forehead,
cheek and chin,
one ear,
were perfectly calm.
I was told that I could
remove the mask.
I did.
She took a single breath,
later, another;
she was gone.
She would have done the same for me.
© Jack Jordan 2013
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