Fading Light

 

I place your hand on mine

to feel your warmth.

I wrap your fingers around my wrist,

feel your pulse in your index finger—

for an instant, I forget myself

and look at your face,

expecting you to scold me,

only to find you

motionless,

emotionless.

One tube in your throat,

another in your nose.

Oxygen pumps through—

your chest inflates,

rises like a breath from a distant memory.

You are in deep sleep.

I try to tickle you,

squeeze you,

scratch your hand.

I place your swollen palm on top of mine—

warm as always,

though missing your tight grip.

The fluids you’re fed are cold.

A heater blanket wraps your frame.

Temperature: 36.2.

Dialysis steals your heat,

drops you to 31.

I’m glad you don’t feel the cold,

the tubes,

the injections,

the holes.

The AC blows over your head.

We pulled on the tight wool cap you hated.

I’m sorry.

I just gave the nurse a looser, softer cotton one.

I hope you can hear me.

I hope you can see me.

I hope you can feel me.

We all miss you—

so much.

You are the definition of love.

I say my goodbyes

to what’s left of you:

a few remaining electric sparks

in your head.

You are fading.

And the more you fade,

the more your love

pulls me back

to your arms.

Sleep.

Rest.

Dream of me.

Dream of the good old days.

Dream of the united family you built

and kept whole.

I love you,

always,

Baba.