Discovering dawn

Unable to sleep, unable to rest from the fear that perhaps I am doing the wrong thing, perhaps, despite his refusal to eat or drink, despite his vomiting, despite his hair falling out in clumps and his inability to shit: perhaps he would prefer not to leave. Perhaps the pleasure of sleeping and waking is enough. Perhaps I should stop the doctor from coming to do what I hope is merciful. Tormented, I anguish through the hours, and the hours are long. As I write this, it is still another hour till the appointed date with death.

Out walking at 6 a.m., I discovered a world I had never seen before:

In the hour before dawn, a white-haired man
steam-cleans the sidewalk by the fitness center
behind whose shiny glass windows
hundreds of people jog along on treadmills
or spin their wheels while watching
terrible news on large-screen televisions.

A neighbor, skeletal, her lungs full of emphysema,
a portable oxygen tank slung rakishly
over her shoulder like a scarf
and tethered to her nose by plastic tubes,
sits on her walker and smokes.
The hand that holds her lit Camel shakes.

Young women walk French Bulldogs,
joggers puff and strain, fling
sweat onto the sidewalk. Unhoused men
scour the pavement to fill their
push carts full of bottles and cans, their
sleeping bags trailing behind.
A thousand small contrivances keep
us occupied, but for one old cat
it will all end today at 2 p.m.

Bless you for your many comments. I accept with gratitude your good wishes, your sympathy, your blessings, your understanding, your memories of loss, and your fears of what is yet to come. Thank you. We have all said enough for now. One more hour to go. And then some time of silence.