Boston Sunset
About my grandmother...
Boston Sunset
I.
Staring at alabaster surfaces littered
with towels and gowns,
I became stiff and sterile
as I waited.
Prepare yourself.
She doesn’t look good.
She didn’t look like anything,
hooked up to every instrument in the room,
pallid and oddly childlike.
I talked to her; she moved her feet,
feeling for the sound of my voice.
II.
I was breath-taken
by the view from her room.
Grammie, you can see all of Boston from here.
The sunset was beautiful-the frosted haze
made the violet and forget-me-not seep
between the taller buildings.
Her eyesight failed when she was young,
when these streets were primitive,
almost colonial; only the sunset remains.
III.
They took her off the machines
and she looked even worse with nothing
to stabilize her, yet so calm and fair.
I wondered which labored wheeze
would be her last. The sound
was almost like her talking.
IV.
I could forget: driving through the snow,
choosing a coffin and flowers and
outfits and makeup and food.
It was work, and it was beautiful
in the end, like she was.
Then there was no more work for me to do.
I drove home and in the rearview glimpsed
the sun set again over the Boston skyline,
orange and red blush this time.
All streets lead toward it
and I kept driving away.
Boston Sunset
I.
Staring at alabaster surfaces littered
with towels and gowns,
I became stiff and sterile
as I waited.
Prepare yourself.
She doesn’t look good.
She didn’t look like anything,
hooked up to every instrument in the room,
pallid and oddly childlike.
I talked to her; she moved her feet,
feeling for the sound of my voice.
II.
I was breath-taken
by the view from her room.
Grammie, you can see all of Boston from here.
The sunset was beautiful-the frosted haze
made the violet and forget-me-not seep
between the taller buildings.
Her eyesight failed when she was young,
when these streets were primitive,
almost colonial; only the sunset remains.
III.
They took her off the machines
and she looked even worse with nothing
to stabilize her, yet so calm and fair.
I wondered which labored wheeze
would be her last. The sound
was almost like her talking.
IV.
I could forget: driving through the snow,
choosing a coffin and flowers and
outfits and makeup and food.
It was work, and it was beautiful
in the end, like she was.
Then there was no more work for me to do.
I drove home and in the rearview glimpsed
the sun set again over the Boston skyline,
orange and red blush this time.
All streets lead toward it
and I kept driving away.