In memory of Risa Solomon
Time for a final visit.
Few days remain
after eight years of cancer.
She has survived undaunted,
far longer than predicted.
No more clinical trials,
no more new drugs,
no more hope.
Morphine the only treatment
as death’s angel grows impatient.
Despite the morning brightness,
the bedroom is darkened,
shades down, lights off,
Central Park vista obscured.
She lies quietly,
lost in large bed space,
quilt to chin,
only face and hairless head exposed.
Shrunken cheeks accentuate her nose,
a Goya etching.
Eyes closed, speech comes
weakly, intermittently.
Odors of death, decay
permeate the room,
confirming cancer’s victory.
A large Briard,
her constant companion,
sensing the inevitable,
rests at foot of bed,
nose, face flat on carpet.
Kiss her forehead,
then goodbye.
Now reenter next room’s light,
as a mythic traveler
crossing from the Land of Death.
Brief words with her daughter,
descend to lobby,
then onto the street
filled with people
bustling into life’s day.