The nurse called at 3 a.m.
“Blood pressure dropping.
Transitioning. …”

I arrived in time to witness
the shocking stillness of his face,
the grayish tint of unheard goodbyes.

To burden the room with tears.

“Transitioning. . .”

A grub who eats his way
to a winged existence,
does not remember
who he once was.

“Transitioning. . .”

I am the jilted one,
jealous of his new body—
pain-free, airworthy,
unavailable for earthly touch.

Like the story of the little angel
carrying a candle
extinguished by her father’s grief.

My tears douse the light he leaves
with each flutter of his wings.