Facing True Death

Facing True Death 9/14/2010
"That vacuum's getting awfully heavy."
as she wrapped her wrinkled fingers around the wine glass stem,
fingers hard (as the pieces of a fallen ring,)
and soft (as the ribbons of eighty Christmases.)

She glanced out the window towards the porch sipping wine
not thinking about the bigger porch in Bayside
long ago
where they used to sit
in the warm summer sun,
and where too many farewells were said.

She looked at the window and saw only the glass
and her grandchildren sitting near,
polishing off their chocolate pudding,
and she clung all the tighter to the slender glass stem.

For there is nothing past the glass (except the porch)
There must be nothing past the glass (except the porch)...

Then why is the stem about to break
from clinging far too tight
to an almost empty glass?
The bottle's nearly
gone...

And she knows that time is short,
ever shorter
the children's laughter sounds old,
somehow older
like a memory from a nightmare
to forget
and that vacuum's getting
awfully,
awfully
heavy.