#vigil - Hello Poetry

I did not want the kneeling in that hospital room where the blinds stayed half-drawn against a gray Vancouver morning. Breath rose slow at the sheets like tidewater. Someone had placed orchids beside the bed their purple mouths wet. Food trays rested untouched on the side table plastic wrap fogged over bowls of fruit and small sandwiches. Outside, the harbor moved under low cloud freighters drifting like dark islands while gulls positioned the wind. Here, they speak in the soft voices people use around the dying. Someone mentioned light at the end of the road. The way people mention mountains when they cannot speak of distance. I remembered another winter far back in the valley years. Grandfather had gone before dawn that morning, the kitchen still blue with coastal dark. Salmon left from the night before and toast spread with berry jam smelling faintly of cedar smoke. You ate only half before rising, coat already on your shoulders like weather coming in. After you left I moved into your chair feeling your absence. Outside, the cedars held the fog low in their branches. A ferry horn moved slowly across the water. Neighbors arrived with foil trays and paper bags roast chicken, honey ham, jars of pickled beans from gardens gone to frost. Rain moved steadily through the gutters. We bowed our heads over the plates. Steam lifted into the dim kitchen light. And we prayed you would return safely, the way children along the coast pray when the boats are late coming home.

0

Mar 13

Mar 13, 2026 at 1:50 PM UTC

doc_mabuse

I did not want the kneeling

I did not want the kneeling in that hospital room where the blinds stayed half-drawn against a gray Vancouver morning. Breath rose slow at the sheets like tidewater. Someone had placed orchids beside the bed their purple mouths wet. Food trays rested untouched on the side table plastic wrap fogged over bowls of fruit and small sandwiches. Outside, the harbor moved under low cloud freighters drifting like dark islands while gulls positioned the wind. Here, they speak in the soft voices people use around the dying. Someone mentioned light at the end of the road. The way people mention mountains when they cannot speak of distance. I remembered another winter far back in the valley years. Grandfather had gone before dawn that morning, the kitchen still blue with coastal dark. Salmon left from the night before and toast spread with berry jam smelling faintly of cedar smoke. You ate only half before rising, coat already on your shoulders like weather coming in. After you left I moved into your chair feeling your absence. Outside, the cedars held the fog low in their branches. A ferry horn moved slowly across the water. Neighbors arrived with foil trays and paper bags roast chicken, honey ham, jars of pickled beans from gardens gone to frost. Rain moved steadily through the gutters. We bowed our heads over the plates. Steam lifted into the dim kitchen light. And we prayed you would return safely, the way children along the coast pray when the boats are late coming home.