She fell asleep.
Her breath rattled. We stood around her, taking turns holding her hand, whispering our love to her. We told each other she needs her rest - the cancer and the covid had ravaged her enough.
I gently rubbed baby lotion on her arm. She no longer flaked, but her skin was like dried sheets of very thin vellum. Why would I think of vellum in this way? Her pores seemed to vacuum the lotion from my fingertips - and I gently cooed how I would give Mom a manicure to help her hands. She didn't respond, but I told her anyway.
My baby brother stood nearby, watching our mother's face and the way her abdomen rose and fell with each breath - almost like her body was forcing itself to breath. His eyes were cried out, and I knew his heart shattered as Mom's breath rattled yet again.
My sister, holding Mom's other hand, reached for our brother and then she froze.
And I froze.
And baby bro froze.
there is no more rattle
there is no more forced breathing
there is no more pain
She fell asleep. The strongest, most willful and loving person I've ever known. She fell asleep.
And I can't stop crying.
