HANDS

by February 7, 2014 0 comments

Hands that sink into the soft tomb of the desert clutch dust and sand and disappear. I watch with my mind’s eye. With despair, I see destiny unfold.

Farewell, old friend.

I sit in the tiny room in the I.C.U. and watch you drift off into nowhere with a morphine drip.

For a moment, I shut my eyes. And now, magically my arthritic hands place peacock feathers on your heart and a white rose in your hands.

Suddenly, hands in the swirling dust of the desert, buried in the sand dunes, reach upward, grab my olive hands, let go, and vanish forever.

Soon, my weary eyes return to this small suffocative space of final moments. It contains unbearable truths.

Your moribund hands, covered with old shattered skin, lie still. And now, I sit in a cold chair in this eerie room and gaze at you.

Yet when I speak, your soft breaths become heavy. So I sink into a long harrowing silence, an oval noose around my wounded soul, and wait.

Before I say goodbye, I share stories of yesterday, vignettes of joy. And perhaps, my voice soothes you now, for in-between my words, I listen to your soft, free-flowing breaths.

Goodbye, old friend, for tomorrow is the end. Yet know this. I hold you in my soul, a blue butterfly nestled in a bed of peacock feathers and white roses.

I hold you now until we meet again around the bend in the invisible universe of life everlasting and love divinely eternal.

Leave a Reply