In the minutes before his passing,  
you waited faithfully for that definitive breath.
Then you locked his final visage in memory’s vault
            as if looking away  
            would have forsaken him
                        to go on alone.

For days-to-nights before this hour,
            you sat by his hospital bed in silence,
oblivious to the pulse of monitors
and murmurs of nurses leafing through charts:
            all the soft amorphous echoes
            drifting through hallways,  
                        gray as old snow.

How you both struggled for words
            to help you feel and find your way.  
Still you plumbed your reserves,
as if finding the right gestures and phrases
            would stave off the end.

But as you closed the last sympathy card,
            you faced inward and warily recalled
his ragged speech,
            frayed by layers of pills and fatigue.

And though you never looked away,
            you now realize that
            hope’s gauze kept you
                        from truly seeing him then.

Like two curled blossoms bending  
            from a common stem,
                        he had faded, slumped,
                                    and finally let go,

            while, fighting back barbs of light,
                        you were still holding on.