Death

Neither god nor skeleton nor
Pretty-faced girl, but rather
A sweetsmiling granny in
Slippers and bathrobe
With a hot mug of Alzheimer's
Clasped between her bony fingers.
She feeds it, drop by drop
To her patients lying abed
Slowly slipping away from her
Silent ministrations.

And then, afterwards,
A heartworm in the guts of survivors
Gnawing and gnawing and--
The pain strikes, a bolt of lightning,
Electric shock, a burst of tears
Geysering at random moments:
It's not the missing so much as the
Regret, softsharp within,
Of memories never made.

Actually, this poem is more about my Grandfather--no, the other one--who died a year ago in August. It wasn't unexpected--he'd been sick for years (diabetes), and had suddenly begun declining early in June. We were actually about to visit when we got the call that he died. I'm grateful that he went fast, instead of lingering for months on end--it's better that way. But since then, I've learned all this stuff about my grandfather--in particular, what a strong man he was. Oh, he had his flaws, but everyone who knew him remembers him as this engine of a man who got up around five or six and went to bed at one or even later. The grandpa I knew was a fragile, slow (literally--he moved very slow because he had lost a leg to diabetes) old man, very dignified and intelligent to the very man. And I wish I'd known him as the man he was for most of his life. It depresses me. I know, I know, this sounds very soppy, but it's true--it's not the losing that hurts so much as the regret. You regret all those times you didn't visit, that you didn't say anything, that you'll only have a handful of memories already fading with time.