POETRY
That Last Day
by Karen Gifford

There's one fly in the room.
As I hold my father's hand,
it is warm and I feel his love.
Although he sleeps
he still holds tight;
his mouth open, breaths come harder.
I rub his hair with my other hand, flick away the fly.
The dog is under the bed, strangely
never having been there before.
There is no air.
I look out the window facing the lake,
the water doesn't move.
Someone turned off the breeze.
My nephew is quiet in the other room.
My brother is repairing screens
My sisters are in the kitchen,
and I can't breathe.
His eyes open,
"I'm here"
He looks to me and winks,
and I know.
His breath changes,
long and slow,
as his chest raises
and lowers
then nothing.
One more breath.
And then nothing.
I hold his hand.
It is still warm, and I feel his love.
The dog comes out from under the bed.
Someone stole the air,
and I can't breathe.