Her long, brown hair lies flat against her right-turned face;
hands, arms, feet, neck, swollen.
Her hospital gown, wrinkled and dirty,
it had been draped on her for days.

She’s propped up against the headboard,
the dull hospital-room lighting casts shadows
that make it hard to tell she isn’t breathing.
It’s ok, I don’t really want to see it anyways.

Staring at her hands, so soft, yet so cold;
the rigamortis hasn’t set in yet.
Her nails look like tiny pins in sausages,
the thought gives me a feeling of disgrace.

Through the darkness of the room,
I can barely make out the pale color of her skin.
I try, but I can only look at her hands,
I am glad for the poor lighting and the hair in her face.

I recall those hands petting horses’ mane,
picking chicken’s eggs for breakfast,
and teaching me to sew.
They were always my favorite pair of hands.

My heart is pounding,
I am terrified to me in this room.
I just want to brush-back her hair,
but I can barely glance at the strands.

“You’re gone,”
I hear a voice that I imagine is my own.
There is no response.
The silence plunges the heavy feeling into my chest.

I am now so much older,
but I remember my urge to flee the room.
Honestly, the emptiness is all I truly remember,
I try to forget the rest.