She's Leaving Us

I hear noises down the hall. Coughs. Beeps. Someone crying for help. The constant hum from an oxygen machine outside the room. The old pendulum clock we brought from the house my mother called home for fifty-three years is chiming. Nine chimes. Nine o'clock on Sunday morning, February 23rd, three days before her ninety-second birthday, and she is leaving us soon.

I'm sitting on the edge of mother's bed with my computer in my lap. Minutes ago I received  a text from a friend who wrote, "Sit quietly and experience what is offered you. Whisper love in her ear. You will never forget the gift and knowledge given you." 

Even before I received the text, I felt a strong overpowering need to push the world aside, close the door to Mother's room, sit on the edge of her bed, hold her hand, and tell her she is not alone. It is something I must do for me, as well as her. We have had our rough passages, fraught with anger, resentment, at times even alienation, but now, in her last days, I'm having a hard time remembering those times. She's my mother; she gave birth to me, she loved me the best she knew how. Isn't that what matters? She did her best, and I am so very sorry I thought that her best wasn't always good enough. I feel such regret. Please forgive me, Mother.

"I love you," I say and she tries to respond but the stroke has taken away her ability to talk. Her eyes tell me she understands. "Lynnette is coming, Mother, your baby. Judy's on her way, too. Harold will be here soon. We all love you so much." She opens her mouth to speak; nothing but a guttural sound is offered. Her eyes tell me, though. She knows.

I must go. I need to be with my mother now.