The Rules of Engaging Grief

Recently, I was discussing with a friend the death of my father in my arms,
just weeks before the loss of my spouse. My friend suggested that I consider
composing a poem to capture the significance of a son feeding a father his last meal.

What follows is my effort, completed in the very early hours of Good Friday.

“Last Supper”

Too weak I let him
Feed me as he wraps
An arm around
My shoulder.

I feel his strength,
His warmth thru hands
That cradle me
As I once did him,

New born
Swaddled tight
Against the bitter cold
Six decades long ago.

No words exchanged
Then or now, only regret
Lingers on dry lips
For my too cautious acts of love.

Though love there was
And is in whatever flicker
I can manage that
He might yet detect.

As my breath shallows,
So touch fails,
Attention turns to Light, or
Is it Presence?

With effort that in youth
Would have easily heaved
My weight upon my back,
I turn my eyes toward his,

And in that instant,
Our eyes lock.
He smiles and I know
He knows my love.

I let his hold release me
To a warm embrace
That encompasses all
My cares in silence.

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