At Marge’s Bedside


Crammed into an ICU room
A dozen persons brought together by shared affection
Keep watch —
A husband, two daughters, a son and assorted friends —
All dressed in matching light blue robes of sanitized hospital gowns,
Surrounding the beloved,
As she —
Robed in well-bleached sheets,
Takes her final breaths —
The scene strangely reminiscent of a last supper long ago,
Or a night in Gethsemene,
Waiting for the end;
Waiting for Resurrection.
Few words are spoken.
“She seems peaceful,”
Says the husband of forty-six years
As he,
Once more,
Gently caresses her head.

In a lifetime on this earth
A billion or so separate breaths
rise and fall within a set of lungs,
And we are privileged to witness
the very last.

At the eye of the storm,
There is peace.

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