This poem expresses love and hope at the end of a long life.
The Final Breath
Once there was a man who thought he’d die
if ever he stopped counting his every breath.
With each beat of his heart –
pat-pan, pat-pan –
he heard the passing-by of his life.
While he lay, dying, in the hospital
(breath coming out-in, in-out),
he silently considered the tragedy
of his so mortal self; thoughts of days gone by
in and through his reeling mind.
No children he had ever had.
No loving partner.
His thoughts were not those of a man
who had scaled mountains, gone into space,
painted a masterpiece, kissed a lover.
No; all the while he had sat mostly at home
(with not another to warm the midnight hours)
and counted every breath, every beat of his heart,
bringing him swiftly through the years.
Now he lay, and hoped the end
wouldn’t come at last,
that he could go on; so much
had he gotten used to the passing seconds.
And then – so unexpected, and rare, and wonderful,
as if seeing up close a smile on God’s face –
before him stood a woman beautiful and bright.
She was no nurse – that he knew – nor a doctor.
Her hair was a yellow crown that swayed when she moved.
For a moment, spellbound, the man who had always
counted his breaths watched: the woman smiled.
My son – she said – do not be afraid –
(and the man of constant fear breathed more easily) –
I come from a place beyond all dread.
I am sent to take you from this existence
to where the light of life never dims.
At these words, the fearful man saw
a far, wide world open up before his eyes:
its carpet was green, its waters were life.
The man, rising from his bed, his hand
within the woman’s, set a foot in front, one ahead,
stepped forward a pace – one – then two –
counted his breath, his heart: pat-pan;
and, with the first planting of his foot
on the foreign, perfect soil, the first intake
of pure air in his lungs: look – the breath was unsung!
he passed into that wide world.
And what fear there had been in him
was no more.
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