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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.

Eli Garcia

Eli Garcia

I live reluctantly in Southern California where I alternately celebrate and dread the slow but constant change that becomes so much more pronounced in my life the older I get. My family includes my wife, who is my light and my storm, and my new daughter, who continues to surprise me daily with both her existence and her ability to stretch my capacity for love, and for terror, into previously unimagined territory. I occasionally garden, which I’ve learned to treat as a study in controlled chaos, only without the control. So, my life, like most, is generally full of hopes and dreams, successes and failures, aspirations, trial and error, peeves, inspiration, ignoring of mortality, doing stuff, not doing stuff, and occasionally standing in the backyard gobbling radish pods off the bush with my very excited toddler. A pebble on a beach with billions of other pebbles. Sometimes I write.
Eli Garcia

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