She gasps for air
Like a fish out of water,
Minus the flopping around bit
As oxygen is forced into her.
What is going through
That head of hers
As she struggles to breathe
Her very last breath?
Can she hear us or
Are her actions solely
Due to the nature of
Dying from old age?
Her piercing blue eyes
Hide behind her eyelids
And I wonder what she’s seeing
And why I can’t see it, too.
Her grey hair is matted to
Her head though it is soft
And dry when I run my fingers
Through her old locks.
What is she thinking as
Death begins to suck whatever
Life is left in her, as her life
Begins to slowly slip away?
I wish I could follow her
To the place she’s fading to,
Though I know I won’t be able to
For quite a long time if I’m blessed.
Her Pale lips used to sing when
She cooked, always has a laugh
On the tip of her tongue and always
Knew what to say and when to say it.
I called the woman Nana, though
She also went by: mom, sister, auntie;
Jeannette, the woman with a song in her heart.