On the day he was dying

I was in a room full of singers who knew something was wrong

But were singing anyway

Because there was nothing else that any of us could do

Except to carry on. Isn’t that how he would have wanted it?

And after I had finished singing about the Christ child

And the dream of the prophet Isaiah for all things to be made whole

I saw the messages

The ones that I had dreaded. The ones that would change everything.

I clung tightly to the friends that found me,

Steeled myself to tell my children

Willed myself to be strong enough to make the drive home

To a house that felt too quiet, too empty

Because it was too full of our sorrow.

I waited for my husband

Who came home, dragging his fatigue and his anger,

Three days worth of anticipation and the dam holding back the grief.

My parents sat with me

And talked with me of their own parents’ passings

And even though we all had teary eyes

I was too tired to cry. Too tired to feel anything

Except how hollow my stomach felt

And how sick my body seemed

Thinking about how there would be an empty seat at Christmas

And wondering if I could ever again sing

Silent night, holy night

Without thinking of the candle flame

That the hospital staff had placed on his door.