Tucked

We did not know this would be the last time

But there we were,

Gathered around your hospital bed,

Too many tubes running through your right arm.

You were tired.

He held a spoon to your mouth

Filled with sherbet and fed you.

Do you remember when I fed you like this, you asked him.

Weary body, so weary and damaged by

Unforgiving aged broken bones

You wanted to sleep and so

I propped a pillow behind your head

And through garbled speech

I understood you wanted your feet tucked in.

I remembered how you used to do that for me

And how much I loved that, to be held close

By sheets, tucked with love and a kiss.

Today you are wrapped in a white linen shroud,

Every part of you tucked,

Lifted gently (so intimate) by those with tear-stained faces

And placed in a cart for your final journey

To your resting place.

One, pulling the cart,

Others singing robustly

We are marching, singing, dancing, praying

Down the hill to the bed

That awaits you in the rich brown earth.

Six, gently lowering you.

All, saying final silent blessings

Or perhaps remembering special moments

Or saying a prayer of thanks,

Or just being present in silence

As we covered you,

Tucked you in with sheets made of soil.

(written upon the death and interment of my father, Bob, embraced in the arms of Jesus - September 10, 2025)