Every once in a while, I scroll through this blog, re-reading stuff I wrote and forgot. Today I found this short poem.
Some say the world will end in fire,
a sudden spike of life and then the glory.
But for her, it was a slow fall into
the cold of oblivion, the bones of her face
sharding like ice, her fingers blue crystals
clutching frigid white sheets,
sliding toward the final winding.
Had my mother lived, she would have been 99 this month. But it’s good that she didn’t, given her severe dementia at 94. A longer poem I wrote about that has been accepted by Caregiver magazine.