I haven't been to visit since your machines were turned off.
I remember the nurse closing your bedroom door.
You never kept your door shut.
You always kept your closet locked.
Skin was draped over your skeleton.

It's hard to remember the color of the walls.
I know you enjoyed neutrality.
Off white.
Tint of yellow.
Keys in your purse, you ran to the market.
You needed your cigarettes.
You never forgot the milk.

The nurse was hesitant of your smoking.
The oxygen tank rattled. The bed squeaked.
Dad rummaged around the garage looking for oil.
Dad spent a lot of time in there the last few months.
He was always fixing things.
He couldn't fix you.
It seemed as if no one could.
You saw it as presumptuous, and that only God should.

As years passed,
and stages progressed.
You grew to be weary.
You were ready to rest.
I closed your eyes,
after mine had opened.
And I remember your last breath.
And, I love you,
to death.