Written

"On that last day, I had written a poem," he said quietly. "I hadn't written anything in ages, but it just flowed out like it does (almost without warning) in the moment. When I said to her, 'Mother, I've written a poem for you!' (half marveling myself), she replied immediately but very weakly, 'Oh! Well, my darling, turn on the lamp and get me my glasses ... ' and I knew." He paused for a moment and sighed. "I knew because it was daytime and the sunlight was pouring into the room, turning everything to gold, and her glasses already rested on the bridge of her nose (same as always), but her light was going out and it confused her." His daughter reached out her hand; he took it and raised it to his lips. "I took her hand much as you just took mine and said, 'I'm here, Sweetheart' and then read the poem out loud to her as if she were alive." He did not share the poem with his daughter on that day (or any day thereafter), for some words were private matters. When he left, he did so quietly, and the ones who knew and loved him best were more grateful then surprised. A week or so later, his daughter brought a huge spray of yellow and white flowers to lay across them like a blanket and smiled through tears at what was written on the stones; hers: 'Well, my darling ... ' and his: 'I'm here, Sweetheart'. It felt right to say no more than that.