A Father’s Passing

A Father’s Passing

To be with a person as they die,
is no less miraculous
than seeing them born.

It is a labor, a rhythm that ebbs and flows, in waves.
The eyes half open, stare at something we cannot see.
The mouth falls slack,
The breath strains.

You take their hand
You bend over, whisper “Squeeze
My hand if you can hear me.
I love you.”

The faint squeeze feels like a return from my own death.
“What a pretty snow,” you say.
“I think I’d like to get up.”
But you are trapped by a dwindling body
And by our unbidden devotion.

Your needs grow elemental: Water from my child’s sippy cup,
Baby food, spoon-fed to your wide open mouth
You sleep throughout the hours like a new born
a kiss on your sallow cheeks,
forgiveness for an old man
now a child
no longer able to be so busy.
You have always been a riddle.

“I am ready to go home.” you announce as you stare at a watch you cannot see.

A wish to mark the time, as if the slender silent sweep of the second hand on your thin wrist could direct you.

That time is gone
Another journey has begun,
which has softened and slowed the clock
into heart studded moments of fear, regret, and love.

I always thought you were God.
The Judge of all things. Too important for me.
But in a final scene
I discovered you were merely a new born bird
perched so lightly
I wanted
to cup you in my warm hands,
As you fledge into another world.