USA

Crash3391@aol.com 

Finale

Two days before he died,
well past midnight,
my grandfather rose
from his second hand deathbed
with its' clean white sheets
and slightly rusted metal rails
pulled his six foot wasting frame
to standing
and finding his shotgun
slid it into his familiar grip
then stomped through the house 
cursing
or so I heard
as I sat in the dark
pressed against the hollow 
wooden door of my grandmother's
spare bedroom
and listened to my aunt's voice 
down the hall
as she spoke over the soft sobbing
of my mother.
When he finally died
cancer had bent him over
shrinking him inches 
before our eyes
until he waged one final battle
with the same gun he had used
to hunt deer in the thick woods
of West Virginia.
Brown eyes wild
and wide
he raised the shotgun 
at every passing shadow
sending worried women to the floor
crouched in cotton nightgowns, 
voices raised in prayer and pleading
until as quickly as he'd risen
he slumped down.
Sweat soaked tee shirt
leaving a trail
across the pale green wall
until he lay on his side 
in the kitchen 
chest heaving as he fought for breath.
Unable to raise him
they'd dragged him down the hall
throwing flaccid arms
across small shoulders
they'd lifted him long enough 
to return him to his waiting bed
then tiptoed out
into the living room
where they'd collapsed
without speaking even just
one word.

© Copyright, 2000, Bridget Gage-Dixon.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.