A trip to the hospital to see a dying loved one: not a relative;
Still, terribly, I can't call back the name or face.
While holding the hand of the departing
Waiting, almost eagerly, for death
For the release and relief, soothing of pains.
Minutes and hours intermingled and I slept, dreaming of nothing.

I woke up with fairy dust in my hair
And behind my ears.
"Growing taters back there?"
A ghostly parental voice echoing loudly
In my head, amid the sterlity.
Yellow roses, an inexpensive vase
At the foot of the bed.
Reminded me of the living, feeling fresh
Alone in that hospital room.
My loved one had been soothed.