Wedding Vows

Do you remember the man you married,
that young man who vowed to be at your side
for better or for worse,
in sickness and in health?
Do you remember that glow, that radiance,
the golden summer of our youth?

I sit by you now and press your hand,
limp and unresponsive,
the hand that trembled
when I slipped a golden ring upon it,
that stroked my cheek,
that stirred the soup,
that steered the wheel of the car
that did not quite kill you.

I gaze into your face, the same visage of loveliness,
resting among its tangled curls
on the embroidered pillows of our marriage bed:
flushed cheeks, lips parted,
forehead dewy, your eyes gently closed;
and I can almost imagine that you merely sleep,
that you will awaken and gaze upon me
with those dove-gray eyes,
and I will know that you love me,
that you always will,
and that you know that there is no limit
to the depth of my love for you.

Alas.

I cannot sit by your bed tonight holding your hand
for you are no longer the girl I married.
You are an emptied vessel,
devoid of memory, of joy, of tears.
I have decided our fate
--until death do us part--
for part us it shall;
and tomorrow
when the machines are turned off,
the tubes removed,
the connections unmade,
there will be only silence and memory:
my memories
of a golden glow, a golden ring
and your glowing smile.