TO DIE ALONE

My father died alone



To be sure, there were others

present at the moment of his passing:

doctors, nurses, fellow patient.



But at that finite focal point

where life ends and death arrives,

they were as inconsequential

as floaters in the vitreous fluid of his eyes,

momentary distractions, blurs in the foreground,

transient nonentities, formless and chimerical.



Surely he must have sought a familiar face

to comfort him in those fading seconds,

a familiar voice to reassure him

during that extended exhalation, when the world

dims, and a recognizable touch of skin

both forgives and soothes,

a stroke of gratitude and thanks,

a gentle farewell into his final passage.



What does it say about the sum of one’s life

to die alone?

Does it hurt more than death itself?



There are many ways to die.

I do not want to die like my father…



Alone.