In the moment before her leaving there was brightness

In the moment before her leaving there was brightness

There had been pain, and there had been medication.
There had been sickness, and shivering, and tremors;
the loss or hair, concentration and confidence.
There had been moments when perfume smelled of silage,
when coffee tasted like the batteries we touched
with our tongues when we were children,
when even pure cool water burned her throat.
There was a day when I thought she couldn’t stay
but she clung on, gasping for each breath, and returned
to us a little more fragile, a little less substantial,
her voice weak and whispering: It’s not time yet.
She slept fitfully, while I sat beside her and watched
the wind blow through the birch trees beyond her window.
As night fell, she woke and wished me Happy Birthday
even though it was barely March. She spoke of houses
she had lived in, of parents she would meet again,
of friends she would miss, of lovers and husbands.
She said Thank you for being here and she said Goodbye.
In the moment before her leaving there was brightness.