Now there is no going in or going out.
Now there is just here, the final here.

Now there is where she hasn’t wanted
to go. Where a week ago, traveling between

here and gone, pairs of unfamiliar eyes
and the face of a cat danced before hers.

Scary, she said then, through wet butterfly
lashes, seeking reassurance from us as

we used to seek hers when, as children in
this house, we’d awaken scared in the night,

pad down the hall to their room where we
would whisper over her sleeping form,

I had a bad dream. She’d murmur,
It’s just a dream. Go back to sleep.

We would stand, trembling, not wanting
to return to the slender bed alone,

though we did, for a moment,
to retrieve pillow and blanket

to bed down on the floor next to her.
Tonight as she sleeps in the family room,

still breathing but not awakening,
we will sleep in the same room with her.

We hold her hand, saying what we wanted
to hear: It’s OK. You’re safe. We love you.

Fly now, butterfly. You can go.
Fly on home.