During Patsy’s last days, I stood beside the bed
of my wife. Occasionally, she frowned or tried
to touch her nose. I guided her hand, enabling her
to scratch her itch. Other times, her breathing
was labored, or she choked on her saliva.
The easy thing was to tell her that soon she’d
enter the Kingdom of God, but it felt phony
because it seemed to dismiss her right to life.
Therefore, I wiped her face with a warm damp cloth.
Dipping it into a blue water bowl, I wrung it out
and told her about work that morning.
The mist crossed the freeway, and I stood outside
the shadow of a girder on the bridge crossing the 405.
A field mouse ran along the edge of a steel beam.
Patsy complained that I woke her with a story
about mice. She said, ‘My head itches.’
Lightly, I scratched her head. It was puzzling
that roads lead somewhere I’m not
always conscious of as I drive. It was almost
as perplexing as the act of nursing leading
to prayer and as confusing as an invocation
leading to heaven.
I am not so different from that mouse running
along the beam, supporting the bridge.
Hunting for food, it found seeds.
I searched everywhere, trying to find the source
of light, and what I witnessed was daybreak.
