A sunny morning, last night
thunderstorms
dropped pinecones in Camelback Drive
backyard.
"Mr. Wind" (as Mom puts it) moves
shadows across
the diptych picture of David I
brought yesterday.
The nurse says it won't be long--apnea
and pale
nailbeds, when she passes don't
call 911.
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"This
is my... meal," Mom says,
catching herself,
she wanted to say "last" as I
spooned the oatmeal
cut with grape jelly into her
toothless mouth.
Then she sucked watermelon and spit
the red flesh out.
What does it remind you of? I ask.
"The Warm Earth, sitting there,
feeding the squirrels."
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She's
resting comfortably. I hope she goes
in her sleep.
"Pleasant dreams," Margaret
says to David every night at tuck-in
but in the morning he greets her
with, "I didn't have any
dreams."
So sad, my sister says, a sigh of
sorrow. It's a beautiful day to die,
like the last day of a vacation
plagued by rain,
the sun's come out and it's time to
go.
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