A poem: sitting with my dying mother

At first, my tissue fills with tears.

Unable to tolerate the smell, or my fears.

The nurses so kind, so matter of fact,

while my guilt and my grief are tightly packed.

But it’s not about me. Holding on tight,

she’ll let go when her heart loses fight.

Until that time, she’s curled tight in a ball:

no control of her mind, mouth, body or soul.

And me? I sit quiet, in a meditative lull.

On life and death, this is a chance to mull.

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