Who would believe a life could end so suddenly?
Without warning, no explanation given.
Sure, he was old, eighty plus one year.
And sick. Guts filled with life-robbing beasts.

I can see where he was:
the shed that once housed canaries.
So proud he was of them
laying their eggs, raising their young.

And what he used:
a garden hose placed around his neck,
strung from the low rafter.

My brother-in-law liked schnapps.
Did he have one last shot before
kissing my sister asleep on the sofa,
television turned low and flickering
in the dim light of autumn?

I can see his work-worn hands circling
round the rubber that in season
brought water to his precious roses,
red and ruddy like the faces of generations
of our men who worked the ships at sea.

As he wound it round his neck,
did he listen to the waves crashing
on the nearby shore?

Did he remember the sounds of
the canary chicks released from speckled blue eggs
kept warm by voiceless mothers,
while serenaded by their eternal mates?

I’d like to think in that moment,
as his legs slid out from under him,
his weight pulling him down
into the abiding twilight,
that he was content,
free from pain and sorrow.