Time of Death

Operate again? I ask. But, isn’t that…
No, they say, it’s not heroics.
It’s just before dawn; I throw off my covers.
Ok then.
What do you wear on the day your sister dies?
I wonder as I hang up the phone.

On my way I notice a light snow lay on the daffodils.
I stop, dip my fingers into it like holy water.
Say a prayer.

It’s not going well, they say, come into the operating room.
We crinkle as we enter the sterile space
in our white paper suits.

Dialysis off
Ventilator next
Finally the
Pacemaker.

Sorry.

Silence hovers.

We cry, say goodbye, we’re sorry.
Sing “Don’t weep after me.”
As four sisters become three
in the still, cold room.
…

Is that when she died?

Or, was it the night before
when a great gust of wind
blew in as we slept?

It opened the French doors of my bedroom
rushed down the steps
and lifted the paper poster,
her ethereal version of afterlife,
right off of the wall…

I wore blue, 'cause I knew.

****