She Is Going

She is going toward that place
that folds its arms around each of us
at the end of our journey,
and I stand in the gully
beside her bed, watching
the slow rise and fall of her chest
as she pushes through the battered gate
of a well lived life
to limp over the last few cobblestones
leading home.
Her mouth is dry with anticipation,
so I lift a glass to her lips
already aware that my offering
will be refused; her milky eyes are focused
on a destination I cannot see,
not on the comfort of her pilgrimage,
and the water will drip down her chin
like the trickle of a dying stream
in the desert.

Still, I cannot help myself.

My emotion tells me to weave
her fingers in mine to guide
those final steps, even though I know
she will drop my hand at the door
and leave me behind.