I rushed in from the sky; her skeleton along the bed,
a breath on a rack. No-one around, but her and me.
My father left there, a week before. I sit there, pervading.
It pretty-well stayed that way, for the next twelve hours.
She’d fallen, then bravely starved her Alzheimer’s self away.
Breathing’s tough to do, all systems closing down.
My mother dissolving. Farewell earth element, sky element.
Sometimes, during the night, I spoke to her.
I’d be happy for her, I said. Go, now. 23rd Psalm, I sang.
When I talked, she changed; when I sang of the shepherd,
her breathing was as smooth as the soundly sleeping, and
I’d never had so much joy in all those quiet waters by.
And, now the last, the out-breath and silence.
For this, the nurses had gathered, because they loved her.
When they leave me, I tickle the top of her head
and whisper: “This way, Dear One. Out this way, Mum.”
My mother, who nobly ruddered the last storm
from way, way deeper than any of us could ever know her.
– Christopher J. Ash