He was a runner when younger,

Races won up to his fifties,

A runner’s body long and lean,

Lost as the years slipped by,

Loosing little by little his youth,

Strength and agility,

As we all do, if we hold on as the years pile up.

His life in his last years limited by his infirmities,

Some physical and others from other sources,

Quiet too a fault,

His deafness contributing to his apparent isolation,

Either unable or unwilling to wear a hearing aid.

Though when he smiled it was like a beautiful sunrise,

Always getting a smile in return.

Eating in silence bent over in his chair,

As the years flowed by he ate less with each passing year.

He was also a scholar,

Many hours spent in study,

Tomes stacked on his desk,

Writing copious notes,

Mostly read only by himself,

Though he did teach for awhile,

Though not something he liked all that much.

In his last month he pretty much stopped eating,

Mostly drinking milk, and sipping soups.

Then one day he plummeted,

The plateau left for a steep decline.

In the early evening he became agitated,

Struggling, gasping, so we put him on oxygen,

Also gave medicines to help with his suffering,

Which in time, calmed him down and he slept.

The nurse ever kind, deeply concerned,

Over Joseph not wanting him to go just yet,

We just had a death a week earlier.

So I decided to stay,

He was anointed for his final journey, if his time had come,

Or if not, it would be a sacrament of healing,

His pilgrimage not yet ended.

I sat with him,

Prayed as is my custom,

Read the psalms,

Said my beads,

Or just breathed with him, reciting the holy name in rhythm with.

As the hours sped by,

Slowly his breathing changed,

Slowed down,

Then as I have seen so many times before,

Stopped.

In his last moments I prayed for him and with him.

Then another custom,

I prepared the body,

Cleaned it,

Put clean sheets on the bed,

Put a large draw sheet under him for easy removal,

Covered him up to his chin with another clean sheet,

Called the superior who came and sat with him,

Funeral home contacted,

Another wait until they came.

I walked the front drive, long, nice, perfect for such things,

Thinking of Joseph,

Thankful that I was honored, graced, with spending his last hours with him,

A man I did not know too well, so quiet was he,

Yet now feeling bonded in some way, as if I helped give him birth.

The caravan came and we worked together with the body,

Folding the clean sheets as a covering

Moving it onto the trolley.

That was it,

His room empty,

Cold, dead,

Like his soulless body

Riding in the back of the caravan.

Most likely for the next few days,

As is another of my customs,

Not alone in this,

I will simply open the door to his room,

Look inside,

And his death will hit me again,

So it goes,

Life,

One by one we leave through the dark door,

Into the light that faith says is there, though not yet seen.