Death Imposition

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
How the summons of a possible death can impose on the remaining probable life with such haste and limits. Prognosis is a viral word. It can grow thick grey walls around a life where there was once just an open meadow, even if there is still time for frolicking. I hate what it did to my darling mother, I missed her before she was even gone.

Submitted: October 11, 2006

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Submitted: October 11, 2006



In one hour she will receive the news.

Until then she has a life. Full to the brim with a past and the promise of a future.

Until then her favourite things are shoes. High. They make her feet hurt, but she doesn't care.

Until then she will put off until tomorrow what she could do today.

Until then she can imagine that the swelling of her belly is just a bit of untimely bloating.

Until then she can see her daughter growing up, marrying, having children. Among her days.

Until then, the ache in her back, which she suffers in the evening, is from too much bending.
Yes. Too much.

Until then, she will one day go to Italy and drive the densely vined countryside in a little red car.
And drink wine. Plenty of wine.

Until then, that bleeding. Well, it's probably just hormonal.

Until then she will grow old with her husband, forever, indefinitely.

Until then, this one hour is forever.


Tumor. Testing. Treatment.

Tears. Time.


Managing. Arranging. Forgiving.

So many tears. Little time.


I love you and it's most important part in that hour, the hours before, the hours after. I LOVE you. She loves. She is LOVED. So much LOVE and PAIN. Inside her and in the room and in the world. Shouting LOVE. Crying HERO. Weeping STAY.


P e a c e.


SORROW, inconceivable. ANGER, incomprehensible. LOVE, incomplete.

And so,

Eternity and Truth. Unknown.

Until then.

© Copyright 2019 Becca Louise. All rights reserved.

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