Holding a Dying Woman’s Hand As She Arrives

I was not there when you died

Photo by Levi Ventura on Unsplash

I was not there when you died;
only when you were dying
I watched the process of departure
Or, I suppose, the church-goer in you
Would call it an arrival,
like the way you arrived into your
body when you saw that I was there;
Your eyes filled with meaning, your hand
found me, grip weak, skin
thin as cheesecloth, and, mouth
leaden and weak, you said you loved
me and I heard you say my name as I
knelt before you at the mud-brown
lounger. Your ankles were purple as rubies,
swollen with blood as stubborn as you
had once been; unwilling to move
unless invited politely; “Go home,”
I said, extending an invitation
that was not mine to give,
“It’s all right. You can go home.”