My mother: Pure poetry

We held her hands,

Death and I,

lingering over the painfully angled ridges 

of each slender finger,

while behind his dusty frame,

my father glared,

telling me to let her go,

eager to have her in his arms again.

I read Emerson

as Death read the final rites.

He smiled gently at my futile metaphor

as I kept winding the pale angel

to softly fill the room: Silent Night.

My hands stubbornly kept her's warm

as I played their song: "Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White,"

and finally, she was dancing with Dad again

so I thanked Death and left.