The last gesture.
A dirty ward,
bedsheets unchanged.
It was simple really
the doctors failed you
and we were left
listening as they lied.
But the infection nevertheless
caused your dying to be long,
your body racked with pain.
The helplessness remains.
And when your last breath
had eased away your will
we closed your eyes
with our loss.
And we brought you home,
laying you out in your coffin
on the table in the front room.
It is our custom for the dead
to be brought back,
to be watched over
to be cared for at the last.
To make sure they know
their dying is over
and their souls are loved.
We lit candles at night
and sat with you in vigil
while our children came in
to peer over the wood
of the coffins edge
Is grandad asleep?
Is he really tired?
Does he need to rest?
Is he in heaven now?
And we spoke of him,
of the way he loved them,
so that he could listen too,
and hear the words
chosen to explain
so they would not fear
these final goings and leavings
of something so familiar
we will all face some day,
and in our own time.
You looked small
in that wooden box,
and before they fixed
the lid down, I placed
a bunch of rosemary
and lavender in your hand.
Rob Cullen
