Watching, Waiting

There is no feeling I've ever experienced like sitting on the edge of my mother's bed in the nursing home as she pulls her hand out from beneath the burnt orange covers just to hold my hand. I can't remember the last time we held hands. We stay in that position for 45 minutes - almost nothing said the entire time.

She's unable to speak clearly. Her eyes stay closed. 

She asks, "Where am I?" 

(She has lost her sense of place - I remind her of the facility and city)

She asks, "Why am I here?" 

(She wants to understand what is going on - this is where you can rest)

She asks, "Second?" 

(She wants to know if there is another person in the room - yes mom)

She licks her dry lips 

(She wants lip balm applied so I paint her lips as the scent of cherry rises).

I watch, her eyes closed, as she struggles to breathe.

I watch, each breath raising her chest a fraction.

I watch, as she pauses before her next breath, wondering if her last has already passed.

I watch, as her eyes flutter, her brow furrows as she's deep in thought.

I watch, as a smile crosses her dry lips.

Death feels so very close, in the room. 

I pull out my phone to see the time ... so I can tell family what time she died.

She breathes another breath.

I imagine saying, "Yes, I was with her, holding her hand."

She breathes another breath.

I look for the nurse call button ... so I'm prepared for that moment when she passes.

She opens her eyes, with a loving gaze and smile, and softly tells me it is time for me to go. 

I remember an earlier conversation when she said she doesn't want me to see her die.

I tell her I will see her tomorrow. 

"Will you?" she asks, a hint of hopefulness in her gaze.

"I will," I say, but feel like I'm lying to her. 

I choke up, tears leaking, as I walk out to the car. 

She breathes another breath.