DEATH Poem: DISTANT SPACES, by Tisha Scott

Pandemic, country swept
wine flows, souls smolder
humans live without touch.
I share with you the fears that
lie in my heart, but only through
the mask covering my face. We
are no longer allowed to exist in
the same intimate spaces.

Some appreciate the
reprieve. Grandpa did not. If
someone was to ask me
what the hardest thing about
the Coronavirus was, I would tell
them, it was losing one of my favorite
people. In the end
of his life, we had to stay away to
keep him alive and, I think,
the distance might have killed him.

I often think about love and
the human condition. The way we
give love freely but also want
space. Until space is the only
thing we’ve got. Grass is greener,
I guess. Why is it so hard to love
what we have, when we have it?

Grandpa had love
to spare. He never needed
space. I fear forgetting
and yet I remember him like
no time has passed, his
Smell, his
Smile, his
zest for life and the fight he
showed until the end.

I never imagined that I would,
one day, pray for his
death. Until his death brought
him peace. And relief from
the pain.

Life is full of conditions. This
condition and that condition and
I don’t care for them, to be
honest. I want to go to
his house and pull up the tiny
white stool that was the perfect
height to sit face to face with
him. Just high enough to hold
his hand and let our arms rest
together
on the arm of the recliner.

It’s been nearly four
years and I’d give anything to
just sit and hold Grandpa’s
hand