What you find is there's no definitive progression from 1 to 5. You knew acceptance long before the last time you guided her slowly to the bathroom (she had begun to fold into herself, like a bird; could still walk, but not on her own) and sat her down on the cold toilet rim. You never thought to offer prayer that was plea; bargaining—for what? more time, more days of the mind's awful fading away, flashing less and less in random bursts of remembrance? As for anger—it came much earlier, learning of the forms of cruel neglect at the hands of kin supposed to be caring for her. Long years of bereavement, prior to the fact of her actual passing; coming upon fragments of her life in such sad disarray. Until just before the end, there was no denying the strength of her spirit. Seven months ago, she'd asked for a swipe of lipstick, loved on slices of custard pie; declared she wanted to live to be a hundred. Until just before the end and the body's failing, still fiercely unwilling to let go yet of this life.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
