REQUIEM
by Johanna Nauraine
This morning I woke up crying. My dream hung in the air like fog, so thick I couldn’t see.
You sat in a wheelchair, your children on either side, faces slack with boredom.
Restless dogs circled the room.
Upon seeing me, you tried to speak.
I could see what it cost you, your chest rising and falling with each breath.
I knew what you wanted to say. Between us, it has always been love.
Eighty-seven years marks a long life, and yet for me, it is only a blink in time.
I think of all the places we have been over our shared decade — India, Croatia,
Greece, Prague, Budapest, Australia, Hawaii. Yet, there is more to see —
the pyramids of Egypt, the sands of Morocco, the frontier land of Montana.
You are always my desired companion.
It has been clear to us both that I will live decades beyond you.
But our closeness, though sweet and unexpected, remains,
a shimmering star — beautiful and everlasting.
This piece has been published in Pure Slush, Anthology on Loss, Vol. 9