.

three days ago calls came in and flights were boooked. my birthday became preparation and washed by. friends faithful through it, one seeing my tears and weakspots and being steady in spite. long sleepless flights, body aching. seeing her wheeled in, i put my face near hers as the sun broke in and she smiles. would this be her last october?

death feels poetic when family flocks from everywhere...when people cancel and miss and excuse and fly great distances... when tears come spontaneously, in sad and glad...when hospice nurses observe 20 people squeeze into her small soft lit room to pray "our fathers" and "hail marys" and "now i lay me down to sleep," to say nice things before she falls asleep....

death is not poetic when the amublance drivers almost drop her as they transfer her from gurney to bed.... when hours of waiting produce guilty boredom.... when she can't use the bathroom on her own... when you just let her smoke one more cigaratte because it doesnt matter at this point

she does not have enough time