Our Circle of Life

I began with you,
you ended with me.
How natural this seems now,
now that the ferocity of grief has been dealt with.
Wild red rage grief,
has turned into mellow yellow,
and I can begin to feel like I should,
like you always knew I could.
Your first-born, you could tell.
I remember well,
my first memory,
not from photos or oft-repeated family tales.
Clear. Vivid. Memory.
Of me. Not quite three,
looking up to see, you,
Ma!
You were there,
on the terrace drying your hair.
I cannot remember what I felt,
just what I saw as I knelt,
on the flower bed below.
And so,
your last memory would be me.
I held your swollen hand,
alone in alien ICU land,
and sang you a childish song,
hoping you’d sing along.
I held it, till you went cold,
untill they gently told
me – You were gone.
That was our circle, Ma.
Our own circle of life.
I began with you.
You ended with me.