Jim couldn't eat anymore.
His cancer ate him instead as he watched the Food Channel.
He fed me one-liners when I checked on him every hour.
"Been dying to see ya, babe," he whispered.
After evening rounds I took him some hopeful pie and coffee,
and sat on his bed to help with the cup.
"You finish it for me, sweet," he said, after a polite effort.
I held his wasted hand.
I held his hand and we talked about his life,
while nearby a ghostly Julia beat eggs into a distant pan.
For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, ... I was sick and you visited me... ‘Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brothers, you did it to me.’ What a spiritual food feast it would be to hold your hand and review one's life. What a bounty to hold the hand of God. You are sweeter than pie and warmer than good coffee.
ReplyDelete