Grip of Death

The old man on my nursing shift, held my hand with such a grip. We both knew he was at death's door. Would see his kith and kin no more. I called for the priest, so ironic. For a Prodestant, not such a tonic. The rest of the patients slept sound. While this old man was heaven bound. His chest rattled, his breathing deep. How better to depart while still asleep. I softly spoke, said "Don't be afraid." Not long after, he was in his grave. I was but a student nurse then. But a great life's lesson I had learned. Physical touch is what's needed most, when life departs and we become a goast.