Friday, September 12, 2014



Tenderly, as she’d often done before,
She sat by his bed and she touched his brow.
She couldn’t help it, she did it once more,
Though he was not there to feel her touch now.

He’d died softly, peacefully, in his sleep;
She’d sensed his soft passage, and felt him leave
A gift of love and memories, to keep
As his legacy to cherish, to grieve.

His departure was abrupt, nonetheless,
Though he’d fought and he’d rallied, once or twice,
He’d simply surrendered to death’s caress,
And left his shell empty and cold as ice.

At first, she was angry and cursed his name;
Whispering harshly with barely heard breath.
She’d cried out for help, but nobody came,
No friends or family knew of his death.

They’d lived alone and cared for each other,
Relying on pensions and Medicare.
Though they were grandmother and grandfather,
Their children no longer lived around there.

Their friends were as old and just as fragile,
Unable to race to each others’ aid;
And those neighbors who were young and agile,
Seldom helped at all, unless they were paid.

Alone in the world, she broke down and wept,
Till she felt a hand softly stroke her hair.
She sat up abruptly and her heart leapt,
Seeing the strangely dressed man standing there.

As the Minstrel sang a song of great love,
She saw that her body glowed with green light.
When her husband called to her from above,
She willingly let her spirit take flight.

Silently they walked to a golden door,
Where her husband beamed her a loving smile.
He said: “Though I never could love you more,
You’re needed back there, for a little while.”

She woke slowly, in a hospital bed,
For her children found her -- an awful sight,
Sprawled across her husband and nearly dead --
Because someone had called them in the night.

The Minstrel just watched them from far away,
Happy that family love still survives.
He knew she’d be well cared for from that day,
Her children would take her into their lives.

Mick McKellar
September 2014

In the world of The Minstrel, no one dies alone.


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