My mother died,
sliding through our fingers
like a string tied to the end
of a balloon escaping into the sky.
Her eyes open, fixed on that moment of departure
with a glazed stare of absence.
Her face empty
as if she did not realize
death had arrived.
No one else in the room did.
Her caregiver supported
the small of her back
as she cleaned her
in preparation for the unexpected journey.
My father held her hand
yet could not feel her
leaving. His lack
of awareness occurred long before now.
If he is not strong
an abused man
cannot grasp more than
anger or the unhealed wound of his pain.
I looked at her and knew
she was gone.
Just like I knew
she was there
in silent moments
during visits made
with love and obligation.
The kisses on her forehead and hands
meant to comfort us both.
Was this gentle
good-bye
the closer relationship
she wanted us to have?