Wait

Yes,
She’s now become
dying woman. She takes one
brea…
…th…
Then, ano…
…………ther.
Laurel’s not here. I cannot see her, anyway.
Just an old woman’s spare hand, a warm hand, unveiling each and every
vein, defiantly poking out from the covers as if to announce:
“Yep, I’m not ready, dammit. You all just wait!”
And, we do. We take turns to hold her hand. We love her, ache for her. Wish it would end
soon for her, hating ourselves for even thinking…
The cotton-knit covers cover her chest, barely rising…
then falling. She takes another brea……..th…
and ano………ther….
All’s peaceful.
Whenever you’re ready, Laurel.
Another brea……th…
We wait.

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