Death

(i)
We, your children, were there
in other rooms
and my mother beside you;
yet you died
without witnesses…
Was that how you wished it,
death's ultimate privacy?
So clear and frail you lay
jaw set in closure,
the drama consummated.
I was the one who'd known
inside my bones
how far from death,
and when you would go.
But, guiltily tired,
I kept no vigil,
was called from dreams
by my brother. All of us
kept watch for a while,
slept again.
(ii)
Long ago.
You'd let me sleep,
an exhausted eight-year-old,
rather than take myself to mass.
Unversed in mortal sin,
you'd calmed my sorrow
saying, "God will understand'—
unwaveringly, as if you knew.
Once only did you use that word,
eschewing fixities
though prey to restless doubt.
Later, you'd ask
did I ever wonder
what it was all about,
your mind working at
puzzles, painful memories.
You anchored yourself
in what you had learnt,
the knowledge of what you must do.
Out of innocence,
a quietly difficult life,
you shaped a wisdom
and inherit the reward of seeking:
the gift of a good death.