Sean Webb
To Colleen, for Whom no Elegy Will Suffice
Colleen Quinn, 11/19/1969 – 1/18/2025
It was the harshest winter in years. Another
snowstorm encompassed us and our valley.
An unrelenting season, nearly all pall and dirge.
You were unconscious for days, slowly dying.
I did all I could in keeping you comfortable,
rubbed your feet and legs, arms and hands,
adjusted covers, swabbed your mouth and lips,
applied cold compresses to keep fevers down.
I filled pages of a notebook with meds given,
bodily reactions, moments you tried to speak.
Before the next doses of morphine and lorazepam,
I stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame
arms crossed, watching you breathe, your breaths
labored, then slow. When you died, the gray walls
washed away and the room rose in a golden aura.
So little was left. I gathered you in my arms,
kissed your lips, your face, your closed eyes.
I anticipated your body growing cold quickly,
but warmth stayed a long time, passing into me
each time I pulled you close. I held your hand
that had gone cold, my warmth passed into you.
It took hours for the hospice nurse to arrive,
her travel hindered by the storm. I looked on
as she undressed your body and prepared
your skin with oils. Purple pools gathered
in your back, your skin clung to your joints,
your thin extremities. The nurse dressed you
in clothes I knew you liked. A man serving
in place of Charon arrived in a black van.
He carried your body out in a worn sling.
I stayed with you every moment there was
before he closed the doors and drove away,
leaving me breathing in the dark. Pillows
of snow collecting on everything I could see.