Midwife of Death

It was if I were a midwife of death,The kind to support a transition but never give two cents worth of my opinion.I’ve never died,And I don’t quite know what it’s like,Except for that dream I had of my grinning neck,Split wide open draining the contents of all that I was.I kept my eyes closed,Forced sleep till life found me again.Oddly, all there was, was nothing but still darkness as I ran on E,A taste I wasn’t expecting.

I don’t think that’s how she went out,As we stood bedside to witness her fitful sleeps and nightmare moaning.Visitors came and went, but I had to sit there,Never letting a second pass with empty chatter.Tears flooded my body as if someone broke the spout off the piping.A gush of emotion watching her fragile face twist and pull in utter confusionIn a sleep she never quite woke from.

Me, a midwife of death, holding her hand in supportAnd in moments of private whispering,Kissed her smooth head and told her she made it.To let death come, sweet into the night to give her true rest.I don’t know where we go next,But she was delivered to lands of milk and honey,Lost love of husbands, and precious grandbabies.A strained effort of conceiving 89 years in three nights.Still, we sat by her bedside with offerings of water, food, and prayersFor an easy transition to long awaited glory.

Dressed in her finest, we kissed her face, told her give it one last go,As she tipped into where souls flood after overfilling the cup.