Four years ago I started dying,
not of terminal illness nor poetic expression
about how we were all born to slowly die,
I died the first day of his last six months
and I died every single day for the next ten

This is four years later and Dad comes home
at 11:50 saying “She’s going to go tonight”
and I don’t cry
but I calmly allow myself to die a little more
and I glance at his own oxygen tank

At 11:55 we pull up to the home
and it is exactly what I expected:
oxygen masks and morphine
clinical and impersonal
next to her pale, familiar frame

And I kiss her softly and tell her I’m here
and she tries to open her eyes

This makes everyone exceedingly happy

The nurse shuffles in with explanations, condolences,
Make her comfortable's, There's nothing you can do's,
expecting heartbroken surprise
but the words are less than foreign
to this family they are home enough
familiar as an old dog’s bark
       all we can do is to hold her hand



Eventually we say our goodbyes
and I walk away waiting to feel eighteen
waiting to feel alive