Hospital Room

I see you were teaching how to die

Those days at the University of Iowa Hospital.

I though it was just a continuation

Of our 18 year bond

And that, it was just another stay,

Another hassle.

You wrote from a vast white prairie of bed,

a place with no direction:

"Can I make it?"

"Can you make it for what?" I asked.

You answered, "Your older sister.

She's trying to come home, I need to see her.

I need to kiss her good-bye one more time."

When I hung up the hope poster and love

To make the room much less bland,

Again you wrote, as though saying something important:

"You know that you won't be canceling school for my time?

And, absolutely no brags at my funeral

And I couldn't ask for a better daughter."

My end of the conversation stuck in my throat.

Some hard luck.

We could simply wait for Mrs. Deadly Cancer

To come in her body

Or we could realize we have no choice.

And what can I do, me?

On my last trip

On the last walk upstairs

I left my house on a snowy morning

To Holden Cancer Center

And to the pallative care station

Dim and quietly hidden in a corner.

There I was to say "goodbye mom." 

I walked straight ahead

Into the smell of that room,

I can still hear today,

My voice saying, "The eagle's here."

And realizing "Where has my mom gone?"