I listen to her breathe. Her hand is growing colder by the moment. Dreams make her eyes flutter. Please God, let them be peaceful.
She has felt no pain, not a drop of morphine has been needed; Alzheimer's does some good after all. Cancer will take her before it can do his worst. Until then she hangs in this horrible balance; so do I.
Dark blue wildflowers wilt on the bedside table and through the window on the third floor the summer sky is full of rainclouds. I can see the chapel from here but it seems so far away, shrouded in shadows and mist.
The clouds part and the cross atop the steeple glints, a wink in my direction before the thunderheads close overhead again. I will go there, after. That would make her happy.
I wait, thinking deep thoughts; feeling much too small to answer any of them on my own. She always had the answers and now she sleeps. If she opens her eyes again I know what I'll say.
She doesn't though. They tell me I can take as much time as I want; I leave right away. I walk to the chapel where she waits for me.
9 September 2015