The last words are never right,
the moment, when you look at someone,
whom your heart is tied inextricably to,
and then, without notice, without forewarn
they expire.
You always think you could have said more,
told them how much they had affected your life,
how much they meant to you,
instead you can't remember if you said, “I love you” or not.
It is not the last words, but rather, the life lived.
Do not concern yourself with saying goodbye,
the time to grieve will come,
hold off while they are still holding on.
Holding them, while even a trickle of vitality
lingers in their hand to hold yours.
Those last moments,
the moments you will never forget,
are but a pause and heartache.
Should we let the last images
our father, our mother, our child
sees be the desperation of two helpless hands,
the anguish of eyes straining to notice every detail
the complete, utter abandoned of self;
dropping all pretence of dignity and wrapping
ourselves in a blanket of raw grief.
Our attitude is misconstrued with the dying,
refusing to accept the inevitable
we may end up causing panic and fear to
fill those last gasps of air,
as the dying moves on.
Reserve this time for squeezing hands tight,
for remembering the life lived
and how that life lives on in you.
A person dies, a body is buried
but the pieces left behind reside
in those that were lucky enough to
share in that life before it faded and went on.
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