Her Last Snow
written by: Eli Garcia
She never cried.
From pain or fear.
Or frustration.
When the doctor told her softly,
as best he could.
At visits from family.
Or good friends held close,
one last time.
She didn’t cry.
Admitting, at last, that she couldn’t stay home.
Old wood, polished with living.
She stroked the jamb fondly, and walked away,
as best she could.
Relaxing into a strange bed.
This is it then? Comfy.
And there’s my table and ashtray!
A perfect touch of home.
As her body receded.
Pink and empty, she smiled,
pulled on another padded coat,
stopped looking down.
She didn’t cry for lost tomorrows.
Or for yesterdays misplaced somehow,
between then and there.
She didn’t cry for the regrets that dogged her.
Whining and pulling at her sleeve.
Relentlessly.
I feel like I’m ready for vacation.
Can’t remember when was my last?
And all my friends are waiting!
I can just see them there.
But she cried with all she had left,
at winter’s first snow,
blowing past her window,
across a golden sunset.
- Willow’s Perch - July 13, 2022
- Out From Her Shore - November 18, 2019
- Were I A Poet - August 18, 2019
