As He Lay Dying

As He Lay Dying

Rain murmurs on the roof.
Outside, the sky is gray, the trees are gray,
the earth the same.
Even the birds flitting from feeder to limb
seem somber today.

In the woodstove, flames eat damp logs
with a resentful hiss.
On the bed beside me, 
dad is breathing quietly.
I can barely hear him,
his once powerful hands now wretchedly thin,
resting on the newly delicate bone of his hip.

There is an end to all things
I've been told,
but I did not believe it til now.
I thought life rose on and on
a great wave, carrying us forward together.

Watching your body collapse in on itself,
the tumor growing rebelliously strong,
I know the truth.
I believe in winter, 
its return a promise of the end of all things,
​while somewhere a great book closes and is shelved.

I listen to these sounds
with a delicacy I did not know I possess:
the story being untold,
shallow breath,
cold water, seeping into frozen ground.

---

Many of you know that the past year my father was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. This fall, he went into hospice, and these last weeks have been a time where we've gotten the blessing to surround him with love, patiently helping to usher him forward in the process of dying. It's been revelatory to say the least, and I am still struggling with the shock of knowing, suddenly and for sure, that we all die.

​Death is so much like birth; each one is irrevocably its own event. I'm so thankful to share these moments, really all the moments I've had, in my dad's company.