The touch of
a nitrile-gloved blue hand
wiping my feverish brow
with the soft cloth,
the smile.
Hers the last
face I saw except for
my kin, tearful, bereft,
on Zoom
—that was hard.
I didn’t want them to know
I was ready,
the body
had been telling me
it’s time and there was so
little breath anyway, and
it was strangely okay
not to have
loved ones around
clinging to the life
that I was letting go of.
The nurse knew this place,
knew the map
of the transition,
and we said a clean goodbye
with our eyes.
A professional editor for over thirty years, Ed works in a variety of genres. His projects have received publishing and professional awards.