The vigil is over; Martina is gone.
Her children have returned to their homes
which seem now so strange —
the red and yellow marigolds
that once brightened the yard look diminished,
and a grey film lingers over the sofas and chairs.
It is as if the struggle between moments and worlds
that held Martina for days —
the ancient drumbeat of “More life! More life!”
that made her fight without knowing she fought
and dream without knowing she dreamt;
that shaped the rhythm of her final days,
holding them all entranced and exhausted
until her last breath had passed —
it is as if that world were the real world,
the normal one; the one they didn’t know existed
until it held them, too.