Two years after

Mom. Photo by Callen Harty.

Two years after

Before you were gone you were gone.
Your eyes, already looking toward heaven,
could not look at me and know who I was,
though love still glimmered in those deep
brown orbs.
Before you passed your past was lost.
Memories flickered in and out.
You could not recall who was dead
and who was not, or
where you were or who was there.
Still you sweetly smiled.

Ancestors tiptoed in the dark.
Lost loves snuggled next to you
and sometimes you called to them
even when they were not there.
Your children were with you.
We looked for you and sometimes
could not find you
beneath
the blankets that kept you warm
while you floated far above them.
Often
you were not there.

When that moment came,
that awful beautiful final moment
we all resisted for so long,
the mysteries of your life
died
with you, leaving behind
traces, small sketches, imprints,
all of them abstractions—
as life is—
condensed moments
of love,
wonder,
joy,
and being
no more.

I was not there
when your last breath
whispered your last secrets,
as the mystery of you lay still
beneath the sheets.
A gentle wind blew swiftly past me
as you passed
and I breathed in your last breath.
Now I find it hard to breathe,
to remember you
perfectly in your fullness.
Like you, my memory is fading, too.
It reaches for images lost
like faded photographs
that could never capture your essence.
I cannot capture you now,
but know that there is still love
reflected in my own brown eyes.