Momentary Glory

by grey lajoie

The snowy third day of spring. I sit by the window to keep strangers from seeing me cry and I notice the beauty in the fragile white dabs that fall softly through the blue, spring sunshine glows through them. They fall in momentary glory before melting into the damp earth below.

She spends the final hours singing to him. And I sit in silent marvel, As she lulls him with old love songs I am, like him, numb. Momentarily struck when I approach legend.

He is what a child knew as god.

He is thousands of stories told thousands of times now wrapped up in tubes and tape. His skin, harsh and defeated by years of living out myths, is covered in a layer of time.

He does not get up to rant about carpentry or society or psychology or even sexuality. He does not wear his glasses

and he does not rise to light another smoke or to fix another drink. This man does none of those things because he is only the shattered monument to what we knew. He lies, not quite silently, but because of the tubes, he lies making desperate attempts at breathes muffled by fluid, as if to add further insult. I cry. Not for this man. But for my sister and for my brother and for my mother.

Slowly, tubes are removed and tape is torn off to reveal that tattoo, that confident green dragon. Faded, familiar, and for the first time, ephemeral His glasses rest on his nose once again and he looks as if he could wake up right now. But he won’t. He has only returned for this moment to see us off.

I want to remain separate, but they don’t let me. My hand is placed on his bare chest, over the eyes of the dragon and as green leaks between my fingers, I feel him breathe clearly, for the first time in hours. He begins with breaths of fire but with the minutes they become slower and softer until a point comes where I’m no longer sure if they’re still there. I listen closely for them still.