Emotions Like Clutter [CTPWC]

Emotions like clutter fill the room where she is dying.
A sporadic chain of mourners come and try to smile.
With the little remaining strength she has,
she thanks them for their crying.

She’s tired now, dying has worn her out,
and her head returns to the pillow.
She has no energy to entertain
or be the hostess she once was.

They remind her of events from their shared past,
they chuckle and she tries to do the same.
Like specters they float about in her vision without name,
dim shapes and voices that could and should be familiar.

The comforter on her bed no longer responds.
She feels a cold that permeates her bones
but gravity continues to hold her body in bonds,
while her spirit struggles to fly home.

Someone kisses her forehead with the scent of gardenia,
a lifelong friend for sure.
Whiskers on her son’s face brush her cheek
and smell of Old Spice like her husband once wore.

The minister came by earlier and led the room in prayer.
He says she’ll soon see her husband and Jesus in heaven.
She believes she will and so she believes.

With a breath exhaled she ends her dance,
finishes her song,
silences the room.
and flies away.

That was beautiful. I could have easily written something similar about my second wife who I lost to cancer after a long struggle. Your poem describes to near perfection my wife's last days at home on hospice care as friends and relatives stopped by to see her for one last time. S&F

reply to post by happykat39
Thank you. I am sorry to hear of your loss. It can be hard for those who have to watch the process. The kindest thing we can do is let them go. Peace to you and may we find it when it is our time.