Early in May I first heard the words:
Something is wrong with Grandpa’s heart,
They’ll just go in and fix this small piece
It won’t take long; he’ll be healed fast
It’s no big deal, he’s in no real pain
All said over the phone—I was gone.

No way to know only three months and he’d be gone,
At first everything said was just simply words;
Thoughts of possibilities caused us no real pain.
He’d be just fine; aside from that valve he had a good heart.
Seemed to us on this world he was stuck fast,
But so many problems caused by that one small piece…

Slowly we realized, came together piece by piece,
From his bedside someone was never gone
Sometimes skipping lunch, dinner, or breakfast
Always trusting in those doctors’ words,
But the problem was no longer just with his heart,
The complications now causing much more pain.

Watching everything through a foggy window pane
Why was this disturbing our family’s peace?
How dare that infection attack our family’s heart?
Making us go where we never would have gone,
Previously only unspoken words
Spoken fast.

Everything happened so terribly fast.
From hardy and hale to incredible pain,
And eventually lost even were words.
Finally feeling as if I might lose a piece
Of myself; all that comforting doubt gone,
The shattering beginning to spiderweb across my heart.

Better to let go than allow an explosion in his heart;
Choose slow poison over demise excruciatingly fast.
Then before I realize, forever he is gone.
And this is only the barest beginning of the pain;
Jealous, no one here can find the same peace;
In the family plot, my song the final words.

Months later still finding that pain,
Doomed to always be missing a piece,
To forever be hearing the missing words…

It’s still lurking, always waiting
These thoughts intruding can’t be ignored
Coming and going yet still no abating.

After so long, surely it must be fading;
But with one odd cue to be suddenly restored;
No, it’s still there, lurking, always waiting.

Coating sight with its own bleak plating,
Is there some strange goal it aims toward,
With this coming and going but no abating?

With its grim dusk so many times shading,
Stealing moments you dearly afford.
It’s still there lurking, always waiting.

Where does it hide between its fierce invading?
So silent and sure wherever it’s shored,
As it keeps coming and going yet not abating

Anything for respite is up for trading,
But such a perk it never would award
No, always it will be there lurking, waiting,
Relentlessly coming and going, but never abating.

If we can step away from all the mess,
Confusing words and faces without zeal,
Perhaps we could traverse with some finesse
This hackneyed world, and reach for that ideal

That can be seen in moments left unread;
An honest look, unfetter’d words, divulge
Excess of thoughts we’ve prior left unsaid,
For pointless chatter rather we’d indulge:

In how we speak and what we say, much more
The world can see the truth of us displayed;
To not restrain or to hold back what store
Of self we’d rather hide than promenade

And when we are just who we are indeed
We give our best to life and then proceed.

Sleep beguiling,
calling, reaching,
Wondrous imaginings therein reside;
Cobwebs stretching, fingers petting
If only I could have that precious sleep denied.

Where would it take me,
race me, free me?
Glorious if there within I could abide;
caverns hidden, breakers ridden
If only I could have that precious sleep denied.

What would I find there,
be there, do there?
Magnificent adventures certainly implied;
queens dethroned, spells intoned
If only I could but have that precious sleep denied.

Instead I stay here,
stuck here, caught here,
Neither tasting nor seeing those miraculously supplied;
sockets rubbing, bed sheets snubbing
Longing for that precious sleep denied…

The room is crowded, breathing bodies, whirring machines, but still he is alone, the single-use gowns and gloves a barrier from those he loves, in the sanitized room quarantined. They come to see him, talk even though he cannot speak, breathing with augmented lungs, electrically pulsating to keep him here. Circulation greatly diminished from a mere month before causes black to creep up from toes to feet, his unruly heart refusing to pump as it should—would, if not for that foreign invader resisting arrest, stalking boldly where it pleases, bivouacking in heart chamber walls. Too stubborn to leave, too well fortified to be run out, it has decided how this one will go. But vital functions curtailed in effort to fight, become the grisly and minutely more manageable alternative, to choose that gradual toxin over an unbearable bursting in his chest, a nearly impossible decision to let go or let explode. So we let go.