We joke
about looking back on all this—
as if
we had that luxury, the miracle
of escape—
as if
we had somehow clawed
our way out of
the quicksand of
mortality.

Remember that day
you stopped liking food?
I would say, or:
Remember the time you fainted on the path?
The day hospice delivered the hospital bed
& you said: so it begins. . . .

There were many times we could walk miles
along the beach. Once,
a seal paralleled our progress
the whole way, our guardian, we called it.
And just look at you now! I want to say,
and now, and now
just look at you,
as if
all the terror
of diminishing
was behind us.

And there you would be,
Upright, putting one strong arm
through the sleeve
of a clean shirt, or
sitting across from me
at tables laden with favorites,
telling me about the adventures
of one full & limitless day.

That was such a hard time,
we would say,
shaking our heads,
safe in the land
of survival.

But no.
Each item is already tainted
with nostalgia.
I fear the change you toss
in an old jar,
the stack of New Scientist magazines,
the little painting of
Godzilla
I gave you for our anniversary.
And especially, your
soft
blue
tee-shirts, knowing soon
I will look at all these things
& weep.

Remember that time
(yesterday)
you turned your serene face to me, let me
wipe your brow, your
hollow cheeks
clean.
Your dazzling calm, then,
the beauty of
your surrender.
How I envied that acceptance.
& there I was,
the small bird,
still scolding & chasing—
desperate to protect,
my beak barely fierce enough
to keep at bay the giant, dark
marauder
for just one more day.