Of Air and Breath
A poem by Melanie Civin Kenion

Of Air and Breath

I was with you when the air left your mouth for the last time,
when you were old and no longer showing me the world
which we thought was yours to share.

When I was a child you brought me souvenirs,
a blade of grass, some sand, some mountain air
tucked in your suitcase,
carried for miles
until they reached me.

Displayed on my shelf
I traveled with you in my mind
and began to understand
that the world didn’t have to be small.

I set off on my own,
to find that field where the grass had grown,
where the sea had lapped the sand,
and where I could breathe the mountain air,
because of your gifts.

And now,
as I wait,
your feet mottled with death,
your breath shallow and slow,
I watch you leave
on your next journey.

About the Author:

Melanie Civin Kenion is a retired teacher living in Boston.  When not writing poetry in the wee hours of the morning,  she enjoys people watching from her terrace, craft cocktails, and adventure travel. 

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