Deathbed

Her cancer returned by Thanksgiving,
worse than before, and her family began
the process of saying goodbye. A week
before she died she left the hospital
for the arms of her prairie home –
its wild blueberry bushes, endless sky,
her sacred dogs, and memory of horses.
She was made comfortable, no pain
I am told, in the house she raised
two boys with her husband of forty years,
her deathbed the old bedroom
of her firstborn, who pines for levity
wherever it may be found.
Why not his brother’s room? he asks,
with its two corner windows framing
golden fields and robin’s egg blue, but
like most things the answer is not known
nor explored, though I consider the room’s
closeness to the front door, for when
the time came for her to leave, only
the dogs would see her go.