I was in NewOrleans during Tropical Storm Barry, pressing my little nose against shuttered shops and restaurants all weekend when the prompt “bittersweet” popped into my mailbox. I noodled with ideas and images of being stuck inside a storm and outside taped and sandbagged stores. Nothing worked. Then this morning, I learned a dear friend’s mom is crossing over and this poem came…

BITTERSWEET

When you call hospice for me
When the care becomes less urgent
When we are waiting instead of hoping
Pull up a chair
Lots of chairs
Bring the loved ones round
All of them
And talk, let the words drift over me
Let them settle on my hair
And in my nose
Offer me a sip of ginger ale
Every now and again
With chipped ice floating in it
But please keep talking
Don’t leave the room
Not even for chores
Bring the laundry straight from the dryer
Fold it on top of me
And keep talking
I want the sound of your voice to be the last thing I let go of

Lindsey Lane,
July 17, 2019