Watching the rhythmic rise and fall

of the breathing,

of the man

who was my Dad.

 

The family sitting in various positions

of anxiety.

Holding their breath

with each uncoordinated spasm and jerk.

 

Occasional disjointed speech,

riddles and ramblings.

Drifting in and out,

slow, slurred words

struggle to form.

 

A different breathing pattern

deeper,

peaceful.

Drops back to shallow,

monitored by anxious eyes. 

 

Brief bouts of agitation.

He can't explain,

stressed,

then back to sedate slumber.

 

The wind outside howls

in contrast to the heavy silence

of this small room.

We are all watching,

waiting,

wondering

how long now?

The collector of souls stands

somewhere near the door.

 

A new day dawns

but time has lost her markers.

Hour rolls into hour

in an endless stretch. 

In the dimness of the room

the clock has no meaning. 

 

Halting breaths,

a pause,

breathing resumes.

''We're here Dad.

We are all here.''

And the man who was my Dad

gently passes

to the next room.