I Know

 

I basked in you;

I loved you, helplessly, with a boundless tongue-tied love.
And death doesn't prevent me from loving you.
Besides,
in my opinion you aren't dead.
(I know dead people, and you are not dead.)
​
― Franz Wright, Walking to Martha's Vineyard

 

 

I know dead people. And you are not dead.

 

The dead people I know look like the living, but the flame is gone from their hollow, disillusioned eyes.

Even as you lay on your deathbed, gaunt, weak, your hair grown out, face unshaven,

So long was your personal care relegated to a dusty drawer somewhere

That I barely recognized the man I’d kissed goodbye only four weeks earlier,

Still, sunken though they were, your searching eyes found me.

You were still there, and you knew me.

Though dying, your strong spirit lived on.

I know dead people. And you are not dead.

 

I knew your hand.

The one I held for hours while I sat in that hospital room chair, reaching beneath the metal bars that kept you from me until they said I could come say goodbye.

And I took your hand in mine, the way you took mine at that long ago altar.

The one I’d placed a turquoise wedding band on all those years ago.

That one.

I stroked that hand where it lay alongside your broken body, interlaced my fingers with yours for the last time,

Doing what I had to do.

I had to let you go. It’s what you asked for.

It’s not what I asked for.

Now and then the faintest squeeze spoke your love to me in the stillness where your voice went silent.

You were not dead, though your body lay dying.

I know dead people. And you are not dead.

 

Your last breath carried you away from me. From all of us. I wasn’t there, ill as I remained.

They tell me when the dying are ready to leave,

They often wait until a loved one steps away.

Like I did.

Even in your last breath, you were thinking of me.

I was thinking of you.

I still am.

Waiting.

Alert to the feel of your spirit near mine,

The gentle touch of your love on my heart,

Leaving ripples like a breeze on the water.

Only your body died.

You live on.

I know dead people.

And you are not dead.

Megan Devine, author of the book on grief, "It's Okay That You're Not Okay", sends writing prompts to the alumni of her writing courses on dealing with grief. This is the result of my response to one of her prompts.