Disappearing Act
She was there when you were dying. Holding your hands, wiping her tear strewn face. She has said her final goodbyes, but silently weeps as she goes.
She drives home and kisses her babies, stares at their chests rising and then rhythmically falling and spends an extra minute listening to the breath of her boys before collapsing on to her bed. She closes her eyes.
She sees you.
In her minds eye, in her dreams.
She sees the body that has failed you and the mind that has caved in on itself.
She sees you.
Over and over again. In all of your different forms.
Picking her up from preschool, mowing the grass and peeling a banana for breakfast. She sees you reading a story before bed, tuning the radio and kissing her mom. She sees you waking up early on vacation and doing a coffee run, careful and considerate not to wake the rest of us. She sees the familiarity of your smile, the gentlest of your eyes and the warmth of your hands.
She sees herself wiping your drool. She sees the courtyard visits filled with silence and stares. She sees the wheels of the wheelchairs moving in circles as her babies push you from one side of the garden to the other - all of you smiling. She sees your frail hands as you attempt to the play the piano in the dining room. She sees the bald spot forming and the gray hair trying it’s hardest to cover the vacancy of age.
She sees you tying up your rollerblades and putting the leash on the dog. She sees you covered in paint and soot as you took it upon yourself to remodel the house. She sees you smiling at each cheer competition, dance recital and big school event, always the first to applaud. She sees you when you answer the phone and when you shave. She sees you in jeans, with your feet propped up and crossed on the coffee table, dozing on the couch even though you “aren’t tired.”
She sees herself kissing your forehead while looking at a body that once housed one of the greatest people she has ever known. She sees herself whispering in your ear how very much she loves you and that she will see you again one day. She sees the hospice nurse with the knowing smile. She sees the fluorescent lights dimming low as the night engulfs everything she couldn’t say. She sees herself walking out of the double doors, recognizing this is it.
She sees it all. In a flash. In an instant. In a lifetime.
How lucky she is that her window of life coincided with yours.
She feels honored to watch you succumb gracefully and without struggle. To accept what is; and to forge ahead anyway.
She has witnessed the greatest disappearing act.
