It was slow and fast, our daughter’s dying,

a few months, single digits, of treatments

and unrealistic hopes for remission,

like watching a flower not grow and bloom,

a chrysalis not open to reveal

a butterfly, and each day in each month

unending, a long wait as time dripped down

a clear tube to her end. Nothing in those days

but the grinding work of disease, the fact

of it like the light in hospital halls,

the hum underlining silence, the chairs

that try and fail at comfort, the minute

by minute vigilance over her needs,

her last wishes, her desire for one more

frozen yogurt layered with sprinkles,

too much for her to eat, or one more ham

and cheese croissant from La Bou, too much, too.

How slow the minutes built the house of hours,

neighborhood of weeks. Then we had the final,

final rush of demolition, the end

of all wishes, the parade of final

visits, lids that didn’t flutter open,

the breath slowing slowing, the faintest breath,

until nothing was left for us to do.