I never knew what death was till you died.
With others it was just another fact,
some foreign event; celebrities meant nothing -
I don't remember where I was when Di
or JFK died; neighbours passed away
as small clouds in the sky which soon dispersed;
friends and relatives were passing showers;
none of those prepared me for the typhoon
tearing down our world in devastation
when you died. And yet I knew it coming.
Once treatment stopped, the months of weakening
blew icily in one direction only.
My frail human nature humanly began
to think ahead beyond your death to what
my life would be when you were gone. I know
now I could not imagine then my life
without you. How could I know that objects
harbour empty spaces like shadows
and mark your presence by your absences -
the empty sofa, vacant table place,
the car seat where you navigated for me,
the lonely bed where I no longer sleep -
your kitchen and your garden wait for you
and I just can't believe you won't be back.
Death is the unbelievable never
again of seeing, touching, talking to.
What I didn't know was it would hit so hard.

Pain overwhelmed everything;
nothing else mattered except it should stop.
You never complained or bemoaned your luck.
The opiates fought a bitter long retreat
but eventually the shoots of despair
began to pierce the morphine blanketing.
Embarrassed by your helplessness you wailed
"I can't do anything." and once you said
"I can't go on." and only once "I want
to die." The hospice took you when you asked,
clenching the rail of the bed in your
distress. Dying was merciful.

We had the funeral;
I entertained the crowd;
it all went very well.
People talk of closure - nothing closes;
instead there opens an ocean of time
and an endless desert of emptiness.

I brought the flowers from your coffin home
and put them on our bedroom window-sill.
They seemed to like the cold and flourished there
serene among the scene of suffering
where nagging pain had clamped its teeth around
your arm and dumped its weight upon your chest.

I feel so desperately sorry for you
as if I never realised it would come to this.
Your flowers in the bedroom have wilted now
and I, like a tortoise without a shell,
wait for my grief to wilt as well.

I never knew what life was till you died -
our lives are just a momentary spark
that flares an instant only in the dark.
But you existed and I loved you, so
that is enough and all I need to know.