Somewhere else, happy families are getting the word about successful surgeries.
Arnold and Charles will never need dialysis again. The machine keeping Chuck alive is gone;
Adam's perfect heart, securely installed. A lung means Sharon can function as a mom again,
Eleanor's new liver means she'll see her family grow and lose her precious grandson,
and feel some of our present pain. Darrell and Frances will see again.
The miracle so many people prayed for, answered seven-fold. Were they not specific?
Did they forget to say a certain word? But no. It doesn't work that way.
He fills up the gurney. When did he get so tall? As handsome in death as - no.
His grin made the difference, tying sparkle of eye and freckle of cheek
into one wonderful event. The next few days will be a blur - coffin to pick out,
funeral to plan, final resting place to choose beneath an oak tree on which a friend of his will
carve A.G. RIP. People we don't even know will leave things, trinkets and letters, tangible
proof they remember, sacred offerings that will fade in twelve years, be blown away,
some of them. We'll hang a windchime, accompaniment for tears.
But first, longest night over, we stretch awake on waiting room chairs pushed together.
Follow someone down a hall. There's just three of us in the room with him. Not him.
The beautiful thing that contained his contagious spirit. Absent spare parts no longer needed.
Most people just go home, they told us, but we needed this. Parents, little sister.
One last chance to see him, machines gone. deceptive rise and fall of chest silent. Just Adam.
See his shell and say goodbye. Kiss to forehead, forever-closed eyelids, nose, cheeks, chin, lips.
Our secret kiss since he was a baby. Last child. My baby. He will always be that.
(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012
Beautiful. :)
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