Tuesday, April 30, 2013

Close my eyes

For the last few days every time I close my eyes I see my mom the way she looked when I went in to see her after she had died.

I see her head turned to the side (in the last week of her life her right side didn't have any more strength to keep her head from turning). I see her mouth slightly open. I see her left hand just barely hanging over the edge of the bed, like it had ever since she fell asleep and didn't wake up. I see her not moving, and I miss her shallow breathing, her chest quickly moving up and down. Everything was too still, to silent. Even the light, the same light we'd had the whole time she was in bed, seemed more garish then when she was alive.

When I went in to see her, to say my last goodbyes, I kissed her forehead, held her hand. They felt cooler than they ever had before. I wiped the gunk that had collected in her right eye (that happened a lot in the last few days) and closed her eyelids a little more - they were slightly open, and looked a little creepy, so it felt right.

Later, when the hospice nurse came, she reminded us about my mom's rings, so I took took them off her finger. It was harder than I expected, and I had to use some lotion to help slide them off. Her skin felt even colder.

I don't want this to be the memory that's burned in my brain. I don't want this to be the mom I see every time I close my eyes. I want to see her laughing and smiling, full of life. But instead I have this.

Maybe it will fade.

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