Passing
In the twilight between waking and forever sleep
Her hand flies distractedly to the wild strands of gray
As if to restore her perfect coif, or clutching a tissue
Dabs delicately at her nose, oblivious to the tubes that tether her to life
I study the exquisitely ravaged face
And can still see the echoes of the lovely form
That was once a beautiful woman in the full-flower of youth,
Her thick, chestnut hair framing a doll-like face
Eyes closed, her brow furrows and she murmurs softly
Muttering nonsense words about frozen soup and hard bread
She is in some faraway place – perhaps the ghetto of her childhood
Where food was scarce and siblings died for lack of it
The irony is not lost on me that she has come full circle,
Though now the starvation that threatens her frail frame
Is imposed not by outward circumstances
But by her own weakened will to sustain a stubborn life force
It is a fragile bond that holds her now to her bitter present
And soon, I think, she will drift off to a place I cannot fathom.
For it has been a long and arduous journey
And she is weary of the struggle.
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