a poem for poetry thursday
Today I am sick, working from bed all day. Millie keeps coming in somtimes cuddling with me on the bed, sometimes looking at me with an "are you really staying in there all day?" expression. My post for Poetry Thursday is late. But I didn't really start writing this poem until this afternoon, when a sudden connection danced across my brain. It is still a draft, but I decided to share it here. It needs to be set free into the world and not trapped in my heart.
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She opens the door and motions us down the hall.
As we walk, she says,
we had to put him on oxygen.
He pulls his face out of the mask,
looks into my eyes, reassured by my presence.
Or so I believe because he cannot tell me.
How much time?
I say, stroking his forehead.
He is suffering, be quick.
I whisper in his ear,
then nod.
Seconds pass as he looks into my eyes.
I stroke his forehead,
his eyes slowly droop.
She nods.
He is gone.
Sobbing, I lay over his body.
Today I think about you.
Wondering about those last seconds
when you were dying,
when they couldn’t fix you.
And I rage inside
at you
at God
at them.
I wanted to be there.
I wanted to stroke your forehead
and whisper in your ear.
Though the moment would have been greater
than a nod from one person
and an IV full of finality,
I wanted to be there.
She leads us back to the room.
A few minutes later they bring him to us.
I run my hands down his back and legs
wanting to feel every inch,
memorizing.
Touching his face, nose, neck,
removing his collar,
folding up the blanket
that cradled his body in the last moments.
I catch myself mesmerized by the stillness
of a body that would usually react to any touch.
Today, I wish I would have spent more time,
stroking, praying, wishing,
but then I was thinking,
they need the room.
A few hours after they wheeled you
out of the chapel, I was softly crying
(knowing my role was to be composed),
aching for the honor
of looking into your face
when the doctor nodded.
My aunt said to me,
we would have never gotten you out of that room.
I admit she might be right.
I might still be standing beside you,
stroking your forehead,
mesmerized by the stillness of your body.
And if someone said, m’am we need the room,
I would not move,
no,
I would just stroke your forehead
wishing you to breathe
just once more.
on grieving (and healing), poetry
Reader Comments (18)
That moment with my dog, Hannah is one of the saddest memories of my whole life... Breaks my heart. i have been afraid to even get another dog, i think not ready to love an animal like that again. risk the loss.
This was beautiful.
ox :)
oh my..you write it so well that I am feeling your pain and I want to rage with you...M
i have never cried during a poem..til now.
wendy from quiet
This woke up old memories and am amazed at the similarities.
be comforted Liz
we love you
i love you
XxDarlene
This was so redolent with emotion. It brought back my own loss. I lost my black lab over a year ago. It was the hardest thing I ever had to do. And recently, I had to give away my 20 month old yellow lab because of allergies. So this poem really touched all those empty places inside where I miss both of them still. Wonderful!
It never seems somehow right or fair that a single loss of breath can take those we love away. I hope there was some catharsis in writing this. Hard to find the right words to comment on such a raw and beautiful poemm but wanted you to know I was here.xo
tears... memories... regrets... sorrow... a beautiful poem, love... i have no other words.... xo
This is just such a moving poem. Thank you for sharing such personal feelings.
i love how simple it is...you just let the grief come through the bones of the poem. it made my heart ache.
i think it is so difficult to write about the death of an animal companion without slipping into sentimentality. your poem avoids this and speaks a direct truth instead.
i hope the release of writing this brought some comfort to you. a beautiful poem x
liz, if it is okay with you, I would like to quote a few lines of your thoughts on blogging on my personal history blog (jelly). I am going to do a short piece about my grandmother (who once shot herself) and my grandfather (who apparently caused her to do it). As soon as I can find their pictures to go with it. If you have objections, that's okay, too.
this is beautiful liz...so moving...
I felt every line as I remember grandma. Beautiful!
Feel better!
very touching
Liz,
This is so TRUE, so HONEST. I am in awe my love. This speaks to wounds and soothes them to know someone else shares them.
Magic my dear...I am without the proper words.
XOXOX
Obviously a poem from the heart. A brave piece of work.
Because I love to be read to, I did not read your poem, but went straight to the audio. I am still moved by your words and by how you spoke them and I am honoured to be a compassionat witness to your grief and healing.
I find this very touching, very raw and open. Perhaps particularly this week, it touches something in me, having witnessed a dear friend having to accept and let go of her husband. That final farewell, that wish for one more breath or touch is palpable in the poem. Thank you.