A tiny tree: glitter-spangled
ornaments, blinking lights,
perched on her narrow
shelf. Machines sustaining
life (and fear) sang carols,
a choir of beeps.
Beneath the tree, her picture: look.
This figure swathed in gauze,
held by hissing tubes,
is nothing like
my husband’s sweet-eyed mother.
Christmas Day we opened hollow gifts;
left the children, unsuspecting,
and visited the ICU.
We held her empty hands.
Too stunned to cry, we watched
her body rise and fall:
machine-made breath,
slipping life.
New Year’s Day
we set her free.
Emily Milner enjoys tae kwon do, listening to her children giggle, and reading good books late into the night.
