When It Was Over

Poetry

Photo by Sven Brandsma on Unsplash

I didn’t get a “goodbye” before you drew your last breath.

Your body had been tethered to machines and lines,

all matter of life-saving and -sustaining equipment,

but nothing could bring you back from what was done.

We don’t often think of how our bodies function,

or how easily they can turn against us in an instant,

but you had been like a textbook to the doctors

from the age of 12 onward, never ceasing, until age 52.

When the doctor asked if we wanted to donate your body

“to science” (ever to science), I wanted to yell out a “No!” —

but it didn’t matter anyway since you were a diabetic

and thus your body was exempt from being pulled apart,

limbs and organs harvested out in a cold and sterile room.

When it was time to leave you behind in that hospital room,

I couldn’t help the tears that gushed as the gut-punch came:

“Oh. We’re leaving without her. This feels so wrong.”

A glance back made me realize how small you were