By the Bedside, Weeping

A visitor, I sit by night and day unmoved to pen a loving word no more the Muse its lightning thrusts of inspiration cast my woeful way while waiting, watching, nothing left of hope, of comfort – nothing right to say to ease the anguish, relieve the constant pain of dying – not a chance to start again armed with the choice to choose another way. A visitor, I sit by sunny day by dismal night, while Mother lies upon her bed the only one left living still all brothers, sisters, long since dead though living still inside her head confused – where right is left and left is right, where here is there and never is today – until just yesterday refused to disappear into another year. For ninety years, she sowed her seeds – no dreams fulfilled but hopeful still that someday soon – one day they will reward her for her loving words and deeds. They didn’t. Here lies her battered bones, her quaking frame, held loosely by the folds of wrinkled shell, the purple skin, protruding joints, the hairless spots as well where once flowed glowing locks, where rounded nails have grown grey jagged points, this agony on earth, these waning moments left on earth not heaven but her hell. My pen lies dormant nothing left to say – just sit, and watch night turn to day and back again, tranquil, placid vigil over weeping eyes with empty stare tears trickling, tumbling through chasms of each bony cheek once flushed with vibrance now crushed with aged erosion, lips cracked thin lines of grey, her heaving chest slow moving as clear plastic tubes feed air and saline fluids – morphine flow to make her passing easier to go. She turned her head her reddened eyes unwiped by crumbling claws and spoke with broken word-like sounds that rumbled to my ears “You know – I love you, Son – and always – will – no matter – if I live – or die? Come closer – dear. . .” (forgetting it was she who couldn’t hear) then stopped, exhaling just a sigh. I watched her many moments more awaiting long her words of love, as Mothers always know; but, she was silent, still, asleep – as sightless as before, and I had hope her soul would keep her longer here to share the smile that she wore. For now, her weeping eyes are dry – and mine? Still watchful, wet, but calm, serene, her sentry, here, to watch, to wait, and wonder why we all fear what our fate has set for now, tomorrow, or another year.