The Sickroom

© 2003 Collin Kelley
All rights reserved.

Life and death sit in
the sickroom,
brought forth from
the same womb,
a perfect set of twins.
Dare not name them.
Their separation is
only an illusion.
Invisible, but palpable.
A hot breath or cold
breeze on your neck.
The shiver they cause
is the thread of
existence that runs
through us all.

It must be the mother
who has died.
Pulled from the sickbed,
saying she was strong
enough to sit up,
knowing it would be
the final act before
lying down forever.
Father prays and the
children are frozen
or retreating to corners,
burying their faces.
Only one stares,
a woman, unblinking
into the maw of tomorrow
and the next day
and the next.

I have seen this before.
Three sisters after death,
gathering at the window
to watch the ocean that
yesterday swallowed
mother whole.
The tide rolls in and
takes away obligation
and leaves behind a
foam that is only fleeting guilt.
This too, in time, will
be reclaimed.

Edvard stands in the door,
come to dissect the living
in funeral black, to make
time stand still.
One day that woman
will be you, he says.
It will be you who must
look up from the passing
and accept all the tomorrows.

I shiver,
and feel death stand up
and approach.
So tall and handsome.

And Edvard says, maybe
it is the twin.
Life coming to embrace
you, or maybe
his touch will be the cold
fingers of mortality.
Do you really want to
know the truth, shatter
the illusion?

So I walk with that tall stranger.
Leaving the same way
I came in, entering the
room I had just left.
It is this close, life and death.
Separated only by
connecting doors.
And the woman stares
at me with something
that resembles grief,
but I can only imagine
that it is sweet relief.

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