Obituary of Her Last Memory

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Many say the last thing the dying see

is the flap of dove wings

or Jesus caressing their hair.

 

Her hallucinations were full of Him

smiling at her, speaking words

she could not understand.

 

And when I draped the

blanket over her cold feet,

crowned with the blue bruise

of all her past complications,

she was convinced I was Him.

 

I played the game.

“Hush, little one.

I am here for you.

Do not be afraid.”

 

I left for a moment.

I wept.

She had fallen asleep.

 

Before I could

return the next day,

she had passed.

 

Her eyes were closed.

Her mouth was a half smile,

as if she had heard a bell,

had tasted the sweetest thing.

 

I wondered what was that last

great thing she had heard or seen,

but she had taken her memory with her.

 

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