The vigil we hold when we watch the soul's fingers slowly release a body we love.
We medicate them;To ease our own discomfort as much as theirs.
Sip. Crunch. Nibble. Slurp.
But nothing is right.
It is too hot or too cold.
We need something sweet or salty.
There is no silence quite as deafening as the hum and hiss of the oxygen tank and gasps of air dancing in the darkness.
All the chords of the diversions we are accustomed to fall flat.
We milk each sound for any answer to the question that hangs in the air like jasmine on a summer night.
How much longer?
How much longer will l be able to reach out and touch you?
How much longer will I be able to hear you speak my name?
How much longer can I manage all this?
How much longer until that beast, the unavoidable grief, tears apart this little world we have built?
How much longer will I be able to hold up this wall between you and the suffering?
How much longer until I should give you another dose?
This is a sacrament.
This is the vigil we hold when we watch the soul's fingers slowly release a body we love.
