i see you have left

your ears can hear; your eyes can see.
but, your tongue lies lax in your mouth.
and in the silence of a broken house,
i hear animal sounds.

your will is strong; there is fire in your belly.
but, your limbs are a puppet's.
and in the silence of a broken house,
i hear you fall.

your mind is travelling, further and further away.
you must have heard my pleas to respond to her visit.
for later in the silence of the hospital room,
you move your fingers and touch hers.


she is your wife of 27 years.

you are on oxygen and yet struggle to breathe,
your eyes are open, clawing the darkness, seeking
your daughter, who says, dont worry about us,
you have taught us right; all will be well.

in the morning, I sit outside the ICU 
crocheting; doctor says: please come in, 
it is time. your father is slipping away.
standing at your feet, I see you have left. 

your face is still, childlike in sleep.
the final act is being played out for me
new glucose drip, bellows, CPR, 
and then in the silence
the symbolic covering of your face.

mother has that sheet still.

© 2010 Padmavani Karkera