Poem 3 The Parting Hope lies quietly beside the window, the afternoon sun warming her pale cheeks. Her breathing is shallow now, each rise of her chest a little slower. I draw my chair close and take her hand. She gives it a familiar squeeze, faint, but unmistakably her own. I remember the winter roads, when my feet grew heavy and I could go no farther. She would kneel beside me, brush the dirt from my hands, and help me stand beneath the weight of another day. Sometimes we walked only a little farther, her arm beneath mine, steadying my steps, until I found the strength to carry on. I remember the river after the rain, the broken bridge, the voices insisting there was no way across. She sat upon the bank, her shoulders fallen. But I searched along the rushing water, turning back where the current ran too deep, until I found stones beneath the shallows. I called to her. She ran at once and came to take my hand. We crossed together, soaked and laughing on the other side. I remember the years between, the little clearings, the unexpected turns, the smallest signs that something could still grow. When I stumbled, she lifted me. When she faltered, I searched for another way. We learned the shape of each other's hands, and found meaning in roads we never meant to travel. Even as her strength diminished, we held on, grateful for every mile we shared. Now her fingers barely curl around mine. I smooth the damp hair from her forehead, and she looks at me with tears gathering in her eyes. We have known for some time. She wants to stay. I want her to stay. But we have searched every road we know, and neither of us can carry the other any farther. I rest my forehead against hers, feeling the warmth of each remaining breath. Her chest rises, then slowly falls. I bring her hand against my cheek, remembering how she steadied me when I could go no farther. She gives my fingers one last, faint squeeze. Another breath comes, weak and uneven. I wish I could give her one of mine. At last, she draws in a little air and slowly lets it go. I wait for another, though I know. I keep holding her hand. For the first time, she isn't holding mine.