During my days as an EMT, one thing I struggled with was what, if anything, I should say to unresponsive geriatric patients who I was transporting to hospice. The idea that this would be their last ride, and one of the final few private moments they shared with someone – in the back of my ambulance.

I related this to a good friend of mine who agreed to write something for me to say. Based on the idea of a psychopomp, creatures who help guide you into death, he wrote a 5 part series called Elegy for the Living. This is the first part of that series: Cuckoo

I. Cuckoo

The clock blinks four a.m. in orange
It happens every night.
It doesn’t care if you sleep sound
Or toss and turn in fright.
This is the hour of the cuckoo;
The grey hour, when headlights scatter shadows
Through venetian blinds to dance across the wall.
The moon has been veiled by clouds.
The house creaks and settles. Sighing.
And you’re old enough to know
Nothing will come creeping out your closet
With reaching hands and pointy teeth.
In the grey hour, when nothing is really real
It’s easy enough to whisper “No.”
To tell yourself that this is not really happening.
But,
The clock blinks four am in orange
And this is what it means:
It doesn’t care if you can’t sleep
Or have untroubled dreams.