Six years ago. Today.
It was just another day.
Mom was in the hospital. She had been there. She had been feeling better. She was talking about leaving soon. Getting out. Going home.
Over the weekend, her condition had gone downhill. On Friday, she had been babbling a bit. Seeing things that were not there. It was scary. I left the hospital. I could not handle it. It was raining. I ran across town. After a mile or so, I could barely see. It was a mix of the rain and my tears. She was worse than she had been.
After some time, I made my way back to the hospital. I hugged my mom.
But today. Today six years ago. At church, a friend said that she was not doing too well. She was sleeping. Or something like that. I sat there. I watched her. She breathed in and out. Slowly. My aunt challenged me to match her breathing patterns. It was too slow. I could not match it. I sat there. Silent. People from church came and went. After maybe an hour and a half, maybe two hours, I left. I hugged her. I whispered in her ear.
I think she said “I love you.” It was mumbled. And barely coherent.
If only I had known it would be the last time I would see her visage.
It was so real. So surreal. I was there. But in my memory, I just have cloudy shapes. Faces are barely there. Everything is misplaced. Everything is there.
Some days, it runs through my mind – the whole sequence of events – over and over again. It refines itself to specific details.
It is so distant. So long ago now. Every year, it gets harder. Every year it gets easier.