Coping, by Sue Clayton

Cradled in her arms
She fondles my hair
Cannula bruised hand in mine
Her eyes brim, but do not spill

She never cries
Not even when Dad died
Why? I once asked
If I start to cry, I won’t cope

Do you know you’re dying?
I ask silently
Stroking sparse white hair
Caressing a careworn ivory cheek

I fold her into my arms
Gently she pushes me away
I need to cope, she whispers
A lone tear falls on her last breath

I kiss the translucent lips
That kissed away all my hurts
Wipe away her tear
My own tears fall as I try to cope