The moon was full the night you died.
I could see it though the bedroom window,
glossed gold, glazing the dark room with light,
close to the earth, bright, a Supermoon.
I kissed your hands, large now against your shrunken body,
climbed in beside you, held you in my arms,
a wet sponge on your lips, tiny drops of water
squeezed into your thirsty mouth, dry and cracked.
I slept on the floor beside your bed to catch you
from falling out. The hard floor did not bend to my curves.
I could hear your quiet breath. Often I heard it stop,
rose to check on you and whispered, Mother.
You cried a long night, Help me, Help me.
I sang your favorite song, “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.”
You calmed to hear me, your daughter.
Then the moon called you away.
