February 9, 2010


by Bobbi Sinha-Morey

He was fifty-seven,
and he cried at the table
when a friend sang happy
birthday to his wife over
the phone, knowing she
only had days to live.
Balloons in her room.
Cards on her bed. His
daughter-in-law goes
inside the room with
a small cup of cranberry
juice, but it does nothing
to stop his wife's cancer
and morphine barely
eases her pain. He longs
to hear her voice in the
night, the one thing that
soothes him besides
holding her hand or
being near her. Outside
her bedroom door in
the hall the hospice has
left a sign and number
to call. His youngest
grandson doesn't under-
stand the concept of
dying. He begs for an
answer like he does
water, never realizing
what's going on till
he sees his frail mother


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