5 Days

I only spent 5 days with Judy

while she was dying —

when I arrived

she was sleeping, heavy,

drug induced in her chair —

I watched her, watched her sons talk to the nurse,

knowing that any exhale might not meet its friend,

in and out, shallow —

and I thought, the first time I see Judy

might already be the last —

and then she woke,

looked around like a newborn baby

and with slurred speech said

“I don’t like this medicine”,

it knocked her out cold,

so the nurse told her she didn’t have to take it

or not take so much and asked if was she hungry —

no, but later, yes,

and she slurped chicken soup before her friends arrived,

which they did, 30 minutes later —

I showed up again,

this time only one son remained,

the other returned to Colorado,

to his family, to his job, and I couldn’t believe it,

that he could leave his mother while she was dying,

but he did and it was time for her bath —

Judy said I could photograph this but not her “private parts”,

I made a few photos, then sat in the kitchen

and listened to the sound of the wash rag

being rung again and again

in the small blue plastic basin,

next to the bottles of medicine

and all natural supplements too—

the third time I saw Judy

she was in bed at the hospice home,

a friend from Washington

by her side —

the room was a mess,

but a slumber party kind of mess,

and I remember there was some of her favorite fruit

falling out of a plastic bag on the table,

and I thought, what beauty, like a Dutch painting —

the music began to play and I tried not to cry

while they held Judy’s hands and smiled at her,

and Kyle, her son who remained,

adjusted the crystal around her neck

he had given her, to harness her energy

and wear when she was gone,

the music faded away—

it was time to make a final call,

to her brother, who said things

I guess you say when you say goodbye forever

and also for the first time like “you know, I was always a little jealous of you”

and “I’m sorry I didn’t come see you,

but I’ll see ya on the other side” and Judy replied

“You betcha” and the call was done —

the fourth time I saw Judy, I didn’t enter her room,

just walked by the open door, back and forth

because her son wasn’t there and wouldn’t pick up my calls,

he was off in the woods with the dog I think—

I should have said goodbye,

I should have thanked her for sharing,

but instead I left, now a bit regretful—

the last time I saw Judy

would be in the form of two large posters

in her living room standing by for the memorial the next day—

she had died—

and the bed in the dining room was gone,

and the poinsettia next to her bed, gone,

and the mail had arrived, again,

and her son was outside, walking the dog

while I looked around the house

for what remained of Judy.