Final Breath

Strange how ordinary it feels—

this slow departure,

like watching autumn leaves

release their hold.

My body remembers letting go

before I do: each breath

shorter than the last,

like tide going out.

The doctors speak of time

in careful measurements,

while I count moments

in heartbeats, in breaths.

How simple it becomes:

the sunlight on my hands,

the taste of water,

the weight of sheets.

I used to fear the darkness

waiting at the edge,

but now I see—it's only

the space between stars.

My children bring flowers

that fill the room with color.

I want to tell them dying

is just another shade of living.

Remember how we taught them

to swim? First the fear,

then the surrender,

then the floating.

The pain comes and goes

like weather. I watch it

pass through me,

neither fighting nor following.

In dreams, I practice

what's coming: each night

I lay my body down

like an old, beloved book.

How strange that all my life

I carried death within me,

the way a shell carries

the sound of the sea.

Soon I will be memory—

light caught in photographs,

stories told at dinner,

love gone into light.

But now, this moment:

breath entering,

breath leaving,

the perfect sufficiency of air.