Commute

Every day
on my way
to work
I pass
the door
we exited
the last time
I held
your hand.

The trip back
down that hallway
was the bus ride
into hell.

Beginning on
a bright fall day
with dinner plans
and concluding
in tears and hatred.

With each fluorescent step
you gripped tighter
while drifting away
and I plodded,
frozen in crisis mode.
Knowing what it all meant.
It was happening again.

I was not powerless
to help it now.
I merely had to
live with
the decision
we made
(Yes, we)
and embrace
simmering, eternal,
guilt and doubt
every day
on the way
to work...

Past the hospital
and relive
your energizing touch
and overjoyed smell
as you held up
that grainy,
black and white image,
and said:

"Right there. That's your baby!"