I sit alone by her hospital bed —
The others are gone, the prayers have been said —
And look for a time at her ancient face,
The lines writ by years; a facade of lace.

Tears have at last ceased their incessant rain,
But I know tonight, they will fall again.
As now a numbness takes hold of my heart,
I rewind her life, but where should I start?

The years of a life, a moment in time,
An hour on the stage before our bells chime.
Yet all that we are is done in that hour:
We live and we grow, we love and flower.

How can I relate the life that she led;
Her hopes and loves and the tears that she shed?
Or the promise and hope tendered to me
To grow, to become, and then to fly free.

Volumes are penned for the famous to show
Their lives in detail, so others may know.
How could I honor her mem’ry so well,
But talk of her life; her drama retell?

A life full of stories, tales to impart,
The stuff of her work, her dreams, and her art.
Great things from her children, she could evoke,
Most vital of all, the wisdom she spoke.

Recalling the day when papa had died,
The fear and the hurt, my deficit guide.
I mourned a father but her love she lost,
And to me, distraught, she assayed the cost.

“Life is for living,” she spoke to my fear,
“But we can remember those we held dear.
And if we keep them to live in our heart,
They will forever be of us a part.”

I try once again to breathe deep her words,
And let her soul fly, more high than the birds.
They both will always within my heart dwell,
And to my children, their stories I’ll tell.

But now I sit by her hospital bed —
The others are gone, the prayers have been said —
And look for a time at her ancient face,
The lines writ by years; a facade of lace.