The last run

You slipped away tonight, Granny, waited till we weren't watching, then took your last breath. I wanted to be with you, have held you in my heart through these past weeks, but I knew you wanted to make your own way, a small cat curled in the dark.I found you a poem though. My friend Maria wrote it. You'd like her; she makes a good cup of tea. So, rest easy now. I will miss you always. 

The last runUp the hill behind our house.He'd hardly been talking,too polite and quiet,like he had to conserve energy,take short shallow breaths —like he was old.Then he woke me one morningthrew my running shoes on to the bed,stood shiningin the doorway,dressed alreadybrother again.He was faster.In the wind ahead of mehis white T-shirt billowedround like a lantern.The street lights flicked offas we passed them.The sound of our shoeslike a song.I could almost smell jasmine.I could almost smell snow.He reached the top, where youcould see clear over the other side,and turned to me smiling,Meggie, run faster, I was heaving,heavy as a horse. Quick, he saidas if it were a gift he was giving me —quick, before the city disappears.

Maria McMillan, The Rope Walk.

For Margaret Lindsay Simmers, née Dalrymple.12 May 1916 – 8 June 2014.