None of us were with her when my sister’s
heart gave out. None of us went to her body;
her New Years spent in a stainless-steel drawer,
in Columbia Memorial.
Crematoriums shut for the holiday –
(We had no faith to follow)
Even now, years later, it hurts to drive past.
The first time she was there a year before,
I pinned a colorful, serene Bodhisattva poster
On her wall, trying to distract from the Fall Risk signs.
He sat on a lotus flower throne, right palm raised,
facing forward signaling the mudra for freedom from fear.
The Hospitalist told her, If you drink again you will die.
I gently massaged her cold feet, swollen beyond all reason.
Despite the chest pounding in the emergency room,
her heart would not beat again.
They laid a white shroud over her lifeless body;
little sister buried in disbelief under the covers.
Because she was a woman of great compassion
a bodhisattva swept in, placed her gently
on his lotus pillow cloud, delayed his own nirvana
(that’s what they do) and together they floated away.