Three weeks ago life filled sweet Aunt Renée;
May fourth was her ninetieth birthday.
The gifts that were given to someone her age
were memories and laughs as she took center stage.
 
Didn’t need a walker, she was nimble and spry;
as we sang Happy Birthday, a tear filled my eye.
She was everyone’s favorite, second to none;
when she was around, we always had fun.
 
Next week there was tightness deep in her chest;
she went to the doctor and they ran every test.
Results showed a virus, called COVID-19;
this one was different, nothing routine. 
 
WHO searched for a cure, but none was known;
because it’s contagious, she must be alone.
Doctors clad in gowns and PPE
said, “You can’t be with her,” and they meant me.
 
“No visitors allowed” read the sign on the door;
“We’re not taking chances,” said the medical corps.
She laid there alone, hooked to a vent,
with loved ones outside in the midst of torment.
 
We held hands in the hall, with glass in between
us and her—a heartless quarantine.
We watched from a distance as she took her last breath,
making the journey alone, from life into death.