The Last Thing I See

Patricia Wellingham-Jones

From: Skylark, Winter 2001

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The first thing I saw
when I swam up from anesthesia
was your face furrowed with worry lines,
your smile. I felt your hand
clasp mine, warm below the IV,
felt your butterfly lips
touch my forehead.
Since then mine was the face
furrowed over yours,
then you were there again for me.
Although you say you'd rather not
tread the path without me,
I hope you will be
the last thing I will see.

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