and when, as they inevitably do,
her hours grew thin, 
and her hair, bones and flesh too
with eyelids too weak to barely peek
and no longer the strength did she hold
for words to speak,
I'd lovingly touch her face and cheek
as she lay crumpled in her tiny bed
and once in awhile, a small tear she would shed
as I'd wind up the gift I'd given her long ago; 
a tiny music-box with painted angels
dancing and playing in the band
all dressed in brilliant red and gold 
and she'd slowly nod her head
to the music of  "...when the saints go marching in..."

then came the day
when her pain was so strong
yet so was her will 
to cling and hang on
barely able to breath 
unaware now of life's song
I held her thin hand, 
shuddered at her cold skin
and prayed to God 
that what I was about to do 
was not a sin
and with pressure choked throat
I spoke,
"Mama, the saints are marching in...
and they want you to be in their number."

She summoned what strength was left from within 
and said "They do?  They want me?"
Are you sure? Can you see?"
"Yes Mama.  They want you.  It's true.
I tell you what I see.  You can believe me."

"Then I must go." 
And as her lips lifted and cracked 
in one final glory filled smile
I held on tightly to her hand while
she began to mumble her song,
"Oh when the saints...
go marching in..."
and then...
she was gone.

(c) Ocean.12-21-97