The Darkest Hour

I was holding her hand.

Soft and delicate, it seemed to melt in my grasp,

And I willed it to become part of me.

She was frail and tired, drifting in and out of the blissful sleep

That gave her respite from the pain.

She stirred slightly as she opened her eyes.

In them I saw a plea for understanding,

An apology for what she was about to do?

She found the strength to smile weakly and squeeze my hand

As she closed them for the last time.

It was the hour before dawn, the darkest, some say,

But her face was peaceful, glowing,

As it always was when she saw him.

He was with her now, holding out his hand.

His scent from years ago lightened my sadness.

She felt empty without him. She had begged us to understand.

Her last breath was not labored. I laid my face in her blankets.

I wanted to breathe for her, struggled to breathe for her,

I looked up as her hand slipped from mine.

She was beautiful, young again, happy.