The face of death
lingered
near the surface
as her balding scalp
and sun drenched head
faced the wall.
With calm grace
and peaceful acceptance,
she waited
for her inevitable downfall.
Doomed,
she prepared
her final message
of farewell.
Her family stood,
shuffling their feet
as their pain swelled
enclosing them
in their own hell.
Weary faces,
tear stained cheeks,
they waited,
an assembly forever
frozen
in silent prayer.
Like a queen
of regal beauty,
she lay in the bed
conscious, not aware
at the fuss
made around her.
As she slept,
she heard
a young voice
shrill
against
a background of stillness,
a weighted sigh indrawn.
A crack
in the silence
she heard
the voice say:
one-two
buckle my shoe;
three-four
close the door;
five-six
pick up sticks;
seven-eight
close the gate;
nine-ten,
alone
at the end.
The sigh once released
filled the room
with minimal expectations.
Her head fell back
upon the pillows
and breathed her last
disturbing us all.