The Passing of Beauty

 

My grandmother’s mantel clock chimes familiarly.

It is forty-five minutes late.

Autumn leaves shimmer yellow and

their light quivers on the sheets

where my mother lies,

whispering her breaths.

Her old toes wiggle out

into the air.

I ask if she is comfortable.

The house is quiet as we wait,

As the grandchildren drive here

to see her a last time.

Chopin, our favorite, faintly drifts

in the air as she breathes, and stops,

and breathes.

I lie on the couch in the afternoon,

listening for her.

My eyes close, then flutter open

and look for the sheets to lift

and fall. And lift.

A pot of spaghetti sauce bubbles

quietly on the stove,

Her recipe, her million meals,

her love, her children

and grandchildren.

Her life, such a beautiful life.

Even now, such a beautiful life.

White Oak, WVa

Sept. 12, 2025