I’m on the phone with a friend and my Mom is dying in the next room. She is yellow, shrinking by the minute, heavily medicated, and babbling a bit. My Mom, that is. My friend is quite sensible.
You’ve done everything you can.
I know. But still…
Does she understand?
At some level. She told me yesterday she was dying. Then she wondered why the birds were too blue. Then she asked me my name.
I watch the hospice nurse adjusting her blankets. My Mom, her eyes pleading and pleased, offers a gentle thank you, touches her hand, and asks, do I know you?
She may have been asking herself. Creeping dementia does that.
When are you leaving?
Pretty soon. My flight takes off around Noon, and I need time to drop off the car.
Your brother will be there soon. She’s in good hands.
Hands, yes, hands, a reminder.
I hold my Mom’s hand one last time and I leave. I climb in the car and turn on the ignition, then turn it off, then turn it on, then turn it off. Then I return to her room and watch her sleep for a moment or two. I hear birds packing, and breathing, mine and hers.
Then I leave forever, and drive.
My eyes are locked on the rearview mirror. My hands are empty on the wheel.
The too blue birds leave the trees two days later.