Unseen

Death never saw her.

He saw:
Flesh, bone
Hair, sinew
Blood, bile

But he didn’t see her.

He saw:
A pudgy baby
Born on a
Chilly February evening;
A lean skeleton
Lying at rest on a
Balmy August afternoon

But he didn’t see her.

Not her smile.
Not her laugh.
Not her small yet sagely wisdom.
Not the little grudges she kept inside,
Periodically rekindled.
Not the quirks of her personality
She tried desperately to hide.
Not her ingrained motherly instincts
Brandished as a weapon in a
Losing war against irrelevancy.
Not the flecks of sadness in her eyes
Every time we had to leave her
For our ever more distant homes.

No, Death didn’t see her.
He never looked.

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