Go Gently

I am not a writer. Or a poet. But there are those humans, those patients, whose impact on me is undeniable. They are the most unexpected people at most unexpected times. They leave their mark. This poem was written for one such patient, hours after I last saw him. It burst out of my pen only moments after he died. I could not stifle the urge to write it down. And here it is, unchanged from its original form. It is my offering to him.

Would that I were a painter

I might choose the softest of palates

One that evokes lightness and serenity—

Gentle waves or blue of dusk

I might leave out the fiery anger,

The violence of your transgressions,

Peel back the molten tones

To reveal your gentle soul.

“When it's my turn, it's my turn,” you said.

Would that I were a writer

I might pen the graceful pentameter

The prose which promises a loyalty

(Of syllables and of endings),

The prose of love, of forgiveness, of beauty, and of pain

I might omit a certain protagonist

Who inflicted pain or hatred or suffering.

“Forgive yourself,” not my permission but my prayer.

Would that I were a composer

I might plan the chords all major

Choosing the brightest of all the notes

Building on all the memorable swells

Of your days for your finale

I might ignore the minor music

Of your blemished overture.

Would that I were your doctor

I might belatedly mutter through tears

“Your service was your honor.

My honor was my service. To you”

I might hold your hand and search your face

And whisper “I love you.”