ALL THE DAYS OF HIS DYING
        (Bill Waddington: 1908-1997)
               by Sondra Ball
     Day One
One day,
nothing special:
breakfast of oat bran,
lunch of tomato sandwiches,
dinner of Mexican pizza;
two children playing computer games;
myself answering e-mail.
Everything routine and simple,
except for this:
in a house by the river,
you live dying.
     Day Two
Your eyes watch the talkers,
eagerly following all their words.
Your silence is full of speech.
     Day Three
You are so small
lying under blankets,
speechless and still;
your white hair
a tangled crown
about your pale face.
Your eyes still hold me,
even without words:
dark as death,
yet dancing with life.
I sit beside you,
and hold your hand,
while darkness gathers.
     Day Four
Your face is pale
on the pillow,
your fingers frail,
your body slow.
But in your eyes:
such strength of soul.
     Day Five
I will walk a way with you
into the land of death;
but only a little ways.
I must turn back
just when you reach the light.
That light is the barrier
the living cannot go beyond.
Your feet will follow the light
beyond the sunrise,
beyond the bright stars,
beyond the angels,
into The Holy Land.
     Day Six
You are fragile,
your breath ragged,
your body worn.
Yet your eyes are open,
and you still see the world.
     Day Seven
You lie so still on your bed.
I wonder:
what lies under your stillness?
Do you wonder
where you are going?
Are you already talking
with the dead?
     Day Eight
You yearned to be free.
I yearned for you to be free.
We both ached for the ending.
So why am I crying?
     Day Nine
You are voiceless now,
and motionless;
but your spirit soars.
At stray moments
it speaks inside me
        copyright 1997 sondra ball
        published, NQS, spring, 1997,
-*-
 þ SLMR 2.1a þ Anything worth doing is worth doing slowly. - G.E. Lee
--- Opus-CBCS 1.7x via O_QWKer 1.7 
---------------