Saying Goodbye During A Pandemic

Content Warning: Death, Grief, Loss

You’ll have to wait until the very last moment.

When you’re certain, or as certain as you can be,

book a flight and don two masks and board

the plane. They won’t serve snacks or drinks but

you’ll be crying hard enough for the flight

attendant to bring you a bottle of water so you don’t

dehydrate. You’ll land at night and when you exit

the airport you’ll remember how bright

the stars are in the prairie. You’ll wake early,

just as the black gives way to the promise 

of another day. You’ll arrive at the hospital 

and take the stairs to the 6th floor because 

you want the solitude of the stairwell

before you enter his room. When you open 

the door he’ll be surrounded by beeping machines

and tubes that slither out from under blankets.

He will have stopped speaking by this point but

you’ll feed him ice chips and he’ll crush them 

between his teeth each time you spoon one in,

like a baby bird crying for dinner. And the morning 

you bring him home the sky will kaleidoscope 

in greeting and you’ll be able to kiss him without

a mask and you’ll do this each time you slowly push 

the plunger that delivers the morphine into his cheek. 

And when your swollen tears salt his skin you’ll wipe 

them away, and when he takes his last breath you’ll be 

beside him, holding his hand. His skin will stay warm 

longer than expected. You’ll call hospice and the funeral 

home and the family so your mother doesn’t have to. 

And when the neighbor pulls into the shared driveway 

with a backhoe your mother will deadpan, Well now

we can take care of your father. And you’ll all scream

with laughter, even as your brother-in-law looks

horrified. And that night you’ll look up 

into that prairie of stars and tell your father goodbye.