Part Two: Verbs in Past Tense

On loving her, on losing her

Grief is not black & white but this portrait of us is.

Part One.

Every morning, I walk quietly to her bedroom, the sunlight inching its way towards her face, the oxygen machine singing its weary hymn, the pill bottles multiplying on the bedside table. I stand in the doorway nervously, studying her chest, hoping this isn’t The Day I no longer see it rise and rest, rise and rest.