First, you can’t.
You can try. But you can’t.

They have to want to return,
and if they have lost the gleam in the eye,
the impetus to continue, the breath,
you have to know that all the urging,
the pleading, the desperation
will not help.

Here’s what might:

While they can still move, breathe,
smile, speak, whether they can still
walk the dog or feed the cat,
or not,

when they can still hug you
with their arms or their eyes,
when they can speak to you,
with words or their eyes,

whether they can wag a tail
or brush against your leg for a pat,

at every opportunity,
in silence,

let your heart wrap them with
each corpuscle of love coursing
through you, let your vertebrae
hold them upright, feel their cells
embed in yours, and think:

You are everything to me—
you cherished human/husband/
wife/son/daughter/beloved friend.
Stay as long as you can.
And when you can’t, I have
tucked you, a constituent of
matter and light, inside my
marrow,

your microscopic photons
ping-ponging through me—
you, there, for as long as I am,
which, with luck, equals
eternity.