He's slipping away.

Slowly

and all of a sudden.

I lay with him hour after hour
minute after minute
as if we have all the time in the world

and know that he'll be gone before I know it
that his passing will pass
in what will seem like a heartbeat.

His life, his spirit
are like cloth
being pulled through my hands
from an unknown source

and no matter how I try
I just can't grasp hold of it.

I can't slow it down
I can't grip it.

I want to talk to him and share my feelings
but he's not able
nor is it appropriate
for him to hear me or to comfort me.

He is somewhere else now
Somewhere between here and there
And it is I who must comfort him.

My eyes are raw, my head thumping
My chest is heavy and sore
from the full-body convulsions
of grief-stricken, silent cries
into the dark of the night.

I can't sleep
I can't think
I can't meditate

I drink wine
I watch tv
I cry

I think about our daughter
and my shattered heart breaks
even more.

I hold his flesh covered bones
and whisper love notes in his ear
through torrential tears.

He coughs,
holds his hand to his head,
mutters something absurd
and falls back to
weird sleep.

He is dying

Right by my side

It is the culmination of seven long years
and so much fight.

I've been here in my mind before
but I've never
been here before.

How do you possibly prepare?
and still
I am prepared.

But that moment,
the one that is going to take my own breath away

I'm not prepared
and it's happening

And then what?

I don't want to think about it.

No fuss, no fanfare

Just grief.

And people.

Hugs and hugs.

Is all I want.

And then,
there must be a celebration.

For a life was lived

In a most extraordinary way.

And there is so much to celebrate about that.

And life will go on, they say.
I'm not sure how but I'm certain it will.

And so I lay here

And savour every last breath
and sacred moment we have left together
in these bodies
and this lifetime.

And I whisper,
over and over again...

I love you.