I stood there staring at cold linoleum and quietly thanking God for her way out. He kneeled in the doorway, hunched over in physical manifestation, paying particular attention to remain defined as one without our name. She lay staring at Heaven, her eyes closed, her face blank. They say her last breath gave way with a smile.

Before:

I lay quiet with shallow breath and drying tears. He stretches across the love seat, where he sleeps for the trailer (just a minute more). She came to tell me it was done, and we drove downtown. They say you’re supposed to be there - I’m glad I wasn’t.

Earlier:

I write calm words in prayer form for a chaplin to read tomorrow. He won’t think I’m selfish wishing for release - I know him too well. She sleeps upstairs without stirring, ready to go. They say your life flashes - part of her’s was me.

Later:

I breath the day in deep. He takes me for a latte. She’d seen her last sun set with me. They say she’ll see it now with different eyes.

8:12 pm

tags: mom, veovis