His chest rose then lowered,
the rhythm of Last Breaths continuing
as the North wall clock ticked in 4/4 time.
His wife’s fingers fidgeted steadily, adding an increasing number of
wrinkles to the violet handkerchief in her hands.
Nurses and other health care workers entered the room,
then left again.
Up, down. Press, release. In, out.
A nurse checked his arms and legs;
discolored blotches revealed the secret that little time remained.
The setting sun cast speckled shadows against the wall as the evening rays
pierced through the yellowed eyelet curtains framing the room’s only window.
Red splotches, artifacts of anticipatory anxiety, crept up
his wife’s neck as she received the nurse’s message.
Externalized patterns. Nature’s prints. Internalized expressions.
His chest began to rattle as death crept closer.
Dishes on a cart clattered, jarring the hushed scene
as an aide rolled dinner to a room two doors down.
Wind gusts shook the curtain-draped pane occasionally,
swept from across the prairie he had farmed most of his life.
Indication. Perturbation. Resonation.
As his breathing ceased, his wife gripped the handkerchief
allowing a sigh to escape.
Kneeling at his side, a granddaughter stroked his still arm.
A rolled towel was tucked beneath his chin as those in the room
watched while simultaneously nursing Grief.
Process. Response. Reprieve.
Then the funeral director walked into the room,
the chilling dampness of the Outside air accompanying his long, dark overcoat.
As he began the business of “what should be done once someone has died,”
the synchronicity of those gathered
and the place within which they stood together
was punctuated with his difference.
And reality’s regimen began.