The night she died
I had a dream.
I saw her walking
in a pleasant landscape
on an uphill footpath
toward an illuminated place.
Her back was to me.
She turned and saw me
watching her leave
for the last time.
Thrilled to see me,
she smiled and
waved with the familiar
excited anticipation
I had seen so many times
before when I arrived
at her sheltered home
and we would go for coffee.
There were days I thought
this a chore, a boring task
that subtracted
from my important life.
But, in that moment,
in her joyful smile, clarity.
She knew I feared
to carry on without her.
“You will be OK.
I will wait here for you.”
Everyone had believed
I was the stronger sister.
Martha Ellen Johnson
Image: by Eda Yurtkuran via Pexels
