Seven years ago today, I crawled into bed with my mom for the last time. Dry lips yanked back into a rictus of pain, she lay there, shriveled, on the bed. She fidgeted and moaned. Someone gave her morphine. She sighed. Her breath was slow and coarse as gravel. Her skin stretched taught and transparent over her perfect cheekbones.
I picked up her hand. A large vein twanged with the thump of her tired heart.
Anemic sunlight flitted through the room, playing with the shadows on the wall.
I cried without a sound.
Her eyelids fluttered.
This was my mom, but it wasn't my mom.
My dad came in and lay next to her in the bed they had shared for almost 30 years. He held her hand. He kissed her face.
He told her she could go.
She shuddered, knocking her head against the pillow.
The primordial sound of death rattled in her throat.
And she was gone.
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