Body warm, cradled soft against my arm,
I wished him awake
But he refused, eyes wide but soul shuttered Against my entreaty.
I covered his softness with soil and rose petals.
Slow motion breathing:
Not far from bedside, I see the slow motion intake of breath Until it stops for good.
How can that be?
The last sound my husband made was a deep sigh, breath released, But there was no intake.
I held my breath but I could not withstand the pain:
I sobbed aloud and threw myself on his body to retain the warmth.
It matters not whether small grey squirrel, brother to my sisterhood, husband to my wife, beloved
Pet or withered flower, the stillness smothers all but the memory we cultivate, the need we have
To hold forever.
For Beimer boy, my Shih Tzu, and for William Blake writing that “. . .everything that lives is holy”