Departure, Desired

He had a good meal
Mid afternoon
Sunday.
Eight of family present.
Excepting Stewart away
At Vancouver
Master’s studies.
Pop had read to all
Psalm 121.
Mostly from memory.
Voice strained.
Hardly audible.
Gram gone these
Past five years.
Pop pursued his novels
And crosswords.
Staying sharp until
Eyes failed with macular.
This quietened him.
Like some different man.
He wanted to go.
Had told Doc Bradley
As much.
Eighty-nine years.
No meds for the last ten days.
No severe pains.
Only an insistent stupour.
All parties adjourned
To Den.
Pop wheeled upstairs
Smiling at each in turn.
Crisp bedsheets ready.
Elder daughter gave the kiss.
Gone with grace.
Six twenty.
Nothing more said.
Bruce the mortician
Already knew.


(Note. I am reading a novel by prize winning Portuguese author Jose Saramago. What if all the people of an un-named country woke up New Year’s Day. And could not die? Would just stay as they were. A sort of quirky eternal life. Good development or bad? Title Death at Intervals.)