On the Thinnest of Ice
Anne lies in her silent hospital bed,
Breath rising, falling, then barely stirring,
A hush, thick as our winter snows, fills the room.
The clock ticks, yet time itself seems to pause.
Sixty hours, and the world grows dimmer.
Her hand in mine, warmer once, now soft as river mist;
It shivers, as the thinnest ice just before dawn.
I press her name into the quiet, hoping it will float,
But her brave new world of slumber is a deep, glacial water.
Each moment stretches, fragile, echoing.
She drifts beyond the reach of morning birds.
(The ice is splintering, my love,
I hear it in the quiet cracks of your breath.)
Anne is sliding, slow and gentle,
Into the stillness beneath – a hush, an everlasting dream.
On Sunday evening, Anne fell into a profound slumber and has not awakened since.
It would seem to be the moment of eternal goodbye.
If you feel like keeping track of Anne’s cancer journey, I’m chronicling it in prose and poetry here:
https://robertmcbrydeauthor.com/news/
