“Death…that’s the easy part, it’s living that’s so hard.” My mother lived, breathed and romanticized these words every day of her dying life. This poetic embrace of what she knew to be inevitable helped her to find her balance between one world and the next as she waited, patiently, for the “inevitable” to happen—waiting for that transcending flight.
I watched my mama closely that day…the last day that I would see her alive. I took in her every move, her every breath, her every word, and not once did she falter in her will to live, neither did she waver in her decision to die.
I understood as much as one could at such a young age that my mother was gone. I understood, but my heart could not accept it. My small fingers tugged at her eyelids the same way the fingers of fear tugged at my heart. I thought if I could just open her eyes one last time, that I could make her see again…live, again…see me, again.
She lay there—still…holding my hand, the coldness seeping from her bones into mine, those huge blank eyes staring at me…dark, empty…void of light.
A strange emptiness began to course through my body, making me feel hollow and vacant inside. This was it…this was death…it was over…momma was gone…