Summer Leaves

Summer is the time of my mother's dying.

Flying home unplanned from vacation in Alaska.

Straight to the hospital from the plane.

July days walking its sterile corridors.

Leaving the sunshine and shade outdoors.

I don't mind — because she is the one on my mind.

I am sixty-two years and two months.

How many days have we spun together on the earth?

She tells me, “There comes a time when the

journey is done and you need to let it go.”

She is speaking for herself.

But I hear.

It means we are done as I have known us.

When one lets go the other is left reaching.

We have fourteen days after this. 

I stretch them as far as I can.

Morphine to keep her comfortable—but not

enough to let her slip away.

Selfish beyond a doubt—but I covet every breath.

She wakes one night, and looks around the

dimly lit room.

“What am I still doing here?” she asks in dismay.

She has moved on — is leaving me behind.

It doesn't wound. I understand. I really do.

She is nearly ninety-two years.

She is tired.

She has “fought the good fight.”

Her race is almost finished.

I hear that last weak, “I love you,” in answer to mine.

I glance at the clock.

1:06 p.m. — Saturday, August 2.

A lifetime of conversations — and this

is how they end.

A satisfying, simple finale.

They are the right words.

The storm is mighty that night.

I feel secure inside the thick hospital walls.

Her last exhale comes the next morning.

I am reading aloud to her from the Psalms.

A tree planted by streams of water — only I, unintended,

say streams of living water.

And she is gone.

I am instantly swept up in wonder.

“She's there, she's there,” I murmur.

Seeing the sights of heaven — the glory who is God.

I search the room for an angelic presence.

Part of me wants to echo, “What am I still doing here?”

Without you, mom.

But I will not say it.

My run is not over.

I have more days with children and grandchildren.

It is my turn to be matriarch.

The baton is passed.

I will not drop it.

I will hold it tight until I hear those God-dwelt words,

“There comes a time when the journey is done,

and you need to let it go.”

Ten years now — and the journey continues.