Graduation Day
Rasping struggles for breath,
chest heaving—tubes in and out—
nurses in and out,
teeth out.
Munch’s gaping jaw and sunken cheeks,
knobby joints in Auschwitz limbs,
long legs once sinewy strong, and
farmer-tan arms that cradled my whole world.
I don’t think I can sing, Daddy; my throat’s tight.
I hum. The best I can do.
You smile.
I smooth your soft, white hair,
stroke your flaccid arms. Was that an
“I love you”? “I love you, too.”
Hour by hour, day after day,
night after night vigils in institutional chairs,
strong coffee, tasteless muffins,
shame for laughing round the bed.
I sing. I kiss. Giving and
giving when for once you can’t give back.
And you smile. I hold your big hands,
not rugged-rough, no purple-black nails,
but soft, papery thin skin, one size too big.
“I love you, Daddy.” You squeeze.
Gasping breaths, light
fading in your pale blue eyes,
slits behind flitting lids.
I sing tear-streaked hymns.
“I love you, Daddy.” I squeeze.
Gone. Still
in a breathless moment.
Under tentative fingertips, warm turns cold.
I never thought I could touch
a corpse,
but how could I not touch you, Daddy.
It’s a last goodbye.
(For my exceptional father, who graduated from this life January 15, 2008)
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