“What’s Gone” by Joan Cusack Handler

Is guilt:

Not placing him first
Not visiting more often
Not making soup
Not stopping by on my way to East Hampton
Not joining him for a walk
Not being good enough
Not going to mass
Not believing
Not getting an annulment
Not saying my prayers
Not watching my tongue
Not forgiving my brother

What’s left
is guilt:

Falling back to sleep that morning
Ignoring his DNR that first night,
so he had to fight three more
till his frantic heart convinced us to let him go
My hand slapping his face.
Convincing him to let go of the walker, trust himself & the cane
Escaping to the computer
Dreading the sound of his stick on the floor
announcing the end of his nap & my break
My hand slapping his face
Seeing his pale-boned chest, sad reluctant breasts,
hollowed-out torso
Still avoiding mass
Slapping his face.
Doubting heaven
Losing my faith
Slapping his face.