Waiting to die

We sat and I held your hand.
There was nothing left to say.
Your life was over and now you were simply waiting to die.
You looked at me, deep in thought.
Perhaps wondering how to find the exit, or when the end might come, or perhaps reliving moments here and there from your life and wondering where it had all gone.
In a flash, it must have seemed, it was all over.
And now you had no bodily control; you could not even move your arm; you were imprisoned in what was left of your body.
And you looked back at me, as if from within the tiny window of your prison cell.
You were now helpless and we could both do nothing but wait.
And what was there to say?
So we said nothing.
I just held your hand.
Occasionally you would squeeze mine, with your one good hand, as if to say,
“I am still here, but words are of no use, so I’ll just squeeze your hand.
“Thanks for keeping me company, while we both sit here,
“waiting for me to die.”

 

26 January 2011

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