You will.
But these are the last days that you will see him.
Married 37 years.
It comes to an end in an instant.
Oxygen.
Two liters slowly climbing to three.
What next?
Cremation.
And there are no plans.
No payment.
No party.
No hoopla.
Six packs a day.
He smoked.
Ceased in the nineties|suffers now.
He lays there nearly unresponsive, yet beautiful.
He’s comfortable because of you.
His wife.
Tears are held in peace.
Denial now gone.
She’s present.
Even the dogs are solemn.
Quiet|dozing|opening only an eye.
No treat wakes their spirits.
No words.
Thank you for sharing with me.
She touches my knee with a question:
Am I gonna see you again?
Filed under: Buddhism, comings and goings, death and dying, hospice, Impermanence, prose, relationship, Uncategorized Tagged: compassion, death and dying, dying process, hospice, journey, life, life and death, marriage, poetry, relationships, writing
