Mya turned 12 this week. She is absolute perfection.

Passing

So many similarities—
The way they sleep so much,
Struggle to open their eyes,
Their gaunt frames,
Flailing limbs,
Iridescently thin skin,
Shallow, rapid breath.

They are so delicate,
These two,
Our tiny, born-too-soon granddaughter
And her great grandmother.
Both are on the verge of life,
One entering, one leaving.

They are both here with us,
But live also
In the in-between,
A place where those of us,
Planted so firmly in the middle,
Cannot remember.

Mya’s parents call her in—
Come, come, they gently sing.
They cradle her to their hearts,
Reminding her to breathe
Until her entrance
Is complete.
My husband lifts his mother
Into bed each night,
Sits next to her in silence
As she drifts between worlds.

Each makes the journey
In her own way,
Taking the time she needs.

Patience, patience
As we watch and wait.

One cannot help but wonder
If they greet each other
On the passing,
If they exchange something,
Perhaps,
And what that might be?

Two souls whose bodies
Share the same blood
At different ends
Of the same journey.

By Maria Brady-Smith