Looking back
at that time
everything

falls in place,
but drawn out,
slow motion,

nightmare like
in its depth,
in your death.

You, my son,
so passive,
so Stoic

when we spoke
that last time,
no panic

in your face
or your eyes.
I panicked,

seeing you
so bloated
that I rowed

with the nurse.
You, my son,
sitting there

sipping juice
out of breath,
said little,

felt tired,
eyes closing,
I thought you

were dozing,
but unknown
to us there,

death was near,
close at hand
in the air.