An elegy for the remainder

I I am consumed by ice, it's crunch, the bitter taste of chlorine in my mouth, the cold, hard spikes which sting my tongue and my teeth. It is Christmas, someone said, the season for gifts, but I have nothing left; not even words. You You are pensive, afraid, giddy, weak, the strongest woman with the fullest watery eyes, the weepiest voice. When we meet, you laugh at the birds, still circling above in the unlikely heat. What a relief, to see you smile, as if the world is all right. He He stretches his fingers, cracks his neck, keeps his own counsel from pouring forth into our grief. Anger waits behind his face, as impassive as stone, as reluctant as mice when the cat is awake. He eats, he sleeps, he feels the unknown creep. She She bothers everyone. She bothers herself, the words scratched out as well worn chalk, too well known, too well heard. Her mouth opens and the alarm always sounds. In the quietest time she bangs out her songs, the notes fresh, the melodies long. The Deceased Time was his to command, so we think, as the clock inside ticked down, as the matters concerning him were made right over the last week, the last day, the last hour. The last word was brief, just like the Christ he never cared to meet. The Circle of Life The children know it exists in their heads, not their hearts. A phrase for the dying, a hope for denying the immoveable end of flesh and bone, of eyes that will dim. We repeat the words no one believes. A litany which cannot be broken.