This sweet octogenarian, three-legged
with his wooden cane, prayed as usual
before our choir, blessing the forthcoming
service and after amens, “The cardiologist said
I have only one vein and one artery working
on my heart. I have six months.”
Groans. Sighs. He smiled and wobbled
out the room. We rose—hushed—and filed
to the choir loft. He sat in his pew watching.
Where, at his final moment? Driving (God forbid!)—
home alone cooking—shaving—sweeping—reading—
resting? When the last attack comes, Dear Jesus:
grab his spirit’s hand and pull him free; let
his distant ragged body convulse reflexively—
heart stopping, last breath exhaling—
as instantly his soul is with You in paradise.
