Watchnight Poem by Keith Langdon

Two hours and fifteen minutes
from the new year -
my brother died.
A long time coming.
For over a decade his life had diminished.
The list of symptoms had lengthened
like Death’s shopping list,
and we understood that visiting the new year
was unlikely, at best.
(Most only live with it five years, they had said)
So here in the Midwest, as was tradition,
we gathered together
to share leftover Christmas desserts,
listen to fading carols,
and anticipate the dropping of the ball.
And I would occasionally slip away
to call the east coast hospital room
and ask the hard question.
And then two hours and fifteen minutes
from the new year -
my brother died.
It was no surprise – a long time coming.
But the sobbing pulled me to my knees
as I clung to the kitchen counter
under the hands of friends.
And two hours and fifteen minutes
from the new year –
the gathering ended.