I wouldn't say the month passed quickly.
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I only know that when I take a breath
it's not the ICU I smell. (That took a while.)
We said goodbye and touched the blanket
one more time and that was that.
They called Code Hero for a donor
while inwardly we wished that he would save
not all those others, but ... well ... us.
The hugs made damp by falling tears.
The drugs we used to try and medicate
away the pain or catch up on our sleep.
Fragrant flowers that could not outlast our grief.
The phone calls and texts that must be made
while knowing that each bit of information
would elicit sobs. Unanswered questions
rise within my throat that taste of bile and dust.
"How are you?" people ask, although this time
I'm not the one who suffers most. But still.
The phrase I use is that I feel a little wobbly.
What I leave unsaid is that I'm standing
on a precipice and I know that I could sit.
I know I could avoid the wind that's picking up,
that threatens, that could blow me up to heaven,
down to hell or somewhere in between
but something in me plants my feet, defiant.
I raise a fist and yell "Enough!" as if my voice
could even carry in a storm like this. But suddenly,
sensing my resolve, the wind moves on.
The air is sweet and full of peace and that
will have to do until the next time
Death, once more, comes near.
(c) Ellen Gillette, 2023
