The Last Day
S. Rouzbeh
2026-09-03

A meditation on the final ordinary day before a death, and on the families who continue living with the enduring presence of absence.

The Last Day

S. Rouzbeh

The last day
is twenty-four hours;
a border between being
and not being.

Between a young person
who was still breathing
and a photograph
that tomorrow
would rest against a mother’s breast;
a photograph with cold corners
and glass
that, however often it is wiped,
still
holds the fingerprints.

Young people
who did not know
the hands of the clock
had reached their final turn;
in their eyes
there was still life,
tomorrow was possible,
and hope
a window facing morning.

Still
the scent of fresh bread
drifted through the alleys,
still
the warmth of a cup of tea
lingered in their hands,
still
the shoes beside the door
stood in pairs
for an ordinary departure.

But death,
in the darkness,
had wound its clock
without a sound;
like a clock
that stops at midnight
on a table
and no one
hears it stop.

Mothers
who did not know
that some embraces
are the last;
the last warmth of a shoulder,
the last scent of a shirt,
the last hand
brushing the hair
back from a forehead.

And some farewells
linger for years in the ears of a house;
inside the kettle’s song,
among the rustle of curtains,
behind a door
whose every opening
makes someone’s heart
for an instant
beat in mistaken hope.

Fathers
whose home’s supporting pillar collapsed,
who stood upright
so no one
would see them break;
with hands
that still
turned the key in the lock,
but no longer
had the strength to open
any door.

Sisters and brothers
whose home had lost a voice;
a voice that once
came from behind a wall,
with a brief laugh,
with the slam of a door,
with something falling to the floor;
and no word
could fill its absence.

Children
watched a door
that did not open;
for hours
they mistook the sound of the lift
for familiar footsteps,
held their breath
at every ring of the telephone,
and waited for a hand
that would never again
rest upon their heads.

At night,
the hall light
stayed on until morning;
the shoes beside the door
gathered dust,
and a chair
that no one sat in
slowly
became part of the house’s silence.

Tears
passed from eyes into memory
and there
became springs;
in a brief recorded voice,
in a shirt
that still
held the scent of its wearer,
in a cup
that no one had the heart
to clear from the table.

The last day
is more than a story of death;
it is the story of a life
with roads untravelled,
laughter unheard,
meetings never reached,
and a tomorrow
that suddenly
had no tomorrow.

It is the story of a morning
when the curtains were drawn back
but no one
rose to see it;
the story of bread
left on the cloth,
a message
that went unread,
and clothes
hung up
for another day.

It is the story of those
who went out for freedom,
and the loved ones
who afterwards
lived with their absence;
with an empty place
that sat at the table,
with a name
that stayed among the phone’s contacts,
with a photograph
dusted
every year
that never
grew old.

Perhaps its bitterest meaning is this:
no one knows
which hour
will be the last;
which look
the final look;
and which departure
the beginning of an endless wait.

Perhaps that last look
was in the kitchen’s pale light,
beside a misted window,
amid the sound of a spoon
striking the rim of a cup;
perhaps that last departure
came with a door closing softly,
and no one
knew
that this sound
would echo for years
in their memory.

The last day
has not yet ended:
in a clock that has stopped,
in a door that does not open,
in a light that stays on until morning
for no reason,
in a name we call
from which no answer comes.

In the dust
settling on a picture frame,
in the empty place
that catches
the eye each time,
in the sound of footsteps
coming down the hall
that fade
before they arrive.

The last day
is not twenty-four hours;
it is the moment
one person is lost from the world,
and the world,
with all its weight,
the following morning
grows light again.

Bread is baked,
water boils in the kettle,
buses set off,
a child ties a shoelace,
and someone,
with a hand that still
trembles with grief,
draws back the curtain.

Not because they have forgotten;
to learn
that loss,
however deep,
cannot
close every window in the world.

And so life continues;
not without them,
but with them;
with their names in our throats,
with their gaze in our eyes,
with their absence,
which every day
takes a new shape of love.

And the heart,
beside that empty place,
not out of forgetfulness,
but in honour of the one who has gone,
goes on beating.

Source: https://srouzbeh.com/en/posts/entry-1788456240940-a4855803
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