Holding On (Poetry)

She always was a sickly child —
a weakling from the start —
incurable, those wasted limbs
and slow, unwilling heart.

Her mother shielded her from harm —
no school, no friends, no play —
too frail for rough and tumble games —
the world best kept at bay.

And if she heard our skipping songs —
the rhymes we used to sing —
it surely must have made her long
to join in everything

and be a part of our young lives
we shared out on the street —
that running, jumping, laughing crowd —
our surging tide of feet.

It passed her by — untouched, the space
that was her sterile room —
the curtains permanently drawn —
each day a twilight gloom

of studied rest and watching how
the shadows crossed the floor
and slipping in and out of sleep
at Death’s untimely door

for years — meanwhile, we sometimes caught
a fleeting glimpse at most
of her — still hanging on in spite —
a myth — a living ghost

to make a rosy cheek turn pale
in sympathy, or dread
and wonder how it felt to be
half-living and half-dead —

ponder on the awful thought
from sleep you may not wake —
scared to think what dreams might come —
fear’s unremitting ache

always with you... Seasons passed
and Winter turned to Spring
while Death’s dark angel brushed her with
the tip of his black wing

and yet he never took her —
and the doctor could not give
a reason why she lingered on —
what spirit bade her live.

I saw her once — the curtain twitched
that moment I walked by
and she peered through with timid smile
a strange light in her eye.

I smiled straight back and waved my hand
surprised to note her face
which I’d imagined haunting-thin
confined to that sad place

was sweet from suffering and pain
not ravaged but serene —
a shock ran through me, buried deep
the knowledge passed between.

We moved away — I never heard
whether she survived
or if The Reaper came at last...
I sense she’s still alive

and holding on to every day
as though it were her last
while we, the strong ones, let them slip
uncounted from our grasp.