Member-only story
A poem about death
Goodbye Father
I sat next to the dead body of my father.
The sky was grey.
I did not cry.
The hand I’d held with the last of his warmth,
was cold and stiff on the starched white sheets.
His toothless mouth gaped open.
Free of the raspy sound of death.
I wondered what I’d have for tea that night,
I remembered I was hungry.
The machines had stopped their orchestrated rhythm.
The nurses clattered their morning busyness.
It was time to leave.
But how?
What does one do next?
Both parents dead.
Am I too old to be an orphan?
Rain knocked at the window.
I imagined standing outside.
No coat. No shoes. No hat.
Face lifted to the fat drops of wet.
Mouth wide, eyes closed, arms stretched out.
Rain smashing against my face,
to cleanse my soul, purge my sins, free my doubt.
Soaked through to the bones,
wet clothes clinging to my cold skin.
