Peter

The moment of his death had come,

with certainty, and of course, finality,

here in the middle of the night,

no idea of the time,

simply an assurance that it was now,

after what seemed like a month of

watching and waiting,

my step-sisters,

his widow-to-be,

and me.

Together in that apartment,

but each of us alone

with him as well,

receiving guests, family, friends,

first when he was awake,

then during the stove-pipe coma,

finally ushering in

the ministry of Hospice.

All conversations had been

one-way for a while,

all of us wanting to say the things

we missed saying in brighter times.

It was mid-sentence in one such talk

That I knew, then flew about the home,

gathering us all around that bed,

everyone questioning the need,

the urgency, not fathoming

the emergency, when, from

the depths of the disease

that was taking him, he

woke, and smiled

as he never had before,

looked around the bed,

nodding at each of us in turn,

my sisters and me,

then, finding his wife,

found the capacity to speak

of his love once more, and just then,

then the moment came.