Tell Me When You Meet Him

I cradled death
In the hand of my Pappy.
Boreal lavender-charcoal,
Like rime on a limp orchid,
Paled my complexion in comparison.
Color me lifeless.

As I clipped his nails,
Steadying the tremors,
I remembered that
Things that breathe will die.
But, after the fact, they had also lived.

So, I counted
The number of clips it took
To get that perfect rounded edge
So that his brittle nails wouldn't tear.
It's usually five or six,
I'm patient and gentle.

I  could make it better, if I held on tight enough.
Tolerable.
The tremors.
The lapse.
That's what makes me feel important, in control.

Not every time we're together,
Near daily,
Do I think about the Hourglass Dictator-
Like a sand dune in a hurricane.
Threatening.

But, I have accepted the suffering of acknowledgment;
And acknowledged his suffering.
It will only get worse from here.
Maybe if I cry now-
Or is it more important to live now-
It won't hurt so bad later.

When I can get him to
Choke out
Words about sports, and cars, and what he wanted and wished, and how I'm doing in school
I savor them.
But, we're usually quiet when I change his colostomy bag-
Except when I ask him if he has any discomfort.
It's a little awkward, but so are lots of things.

I guess it's changed me-
This whole "knowing death" thing.
I've known lots of death lately-
Even realized death isn't just dying.
It’s in the mind; in the air-
Maybe even contagious.

Death is a terminal illness,
Decidedly,
With a lack of vaccination research.
It is advisable to just avoid it-
Or don't tell anyone you ever had it.