My mother is dying
And some days I obsess about it.
Other days it hardly enters my mind.
Slow.
Too slow.
Agonizing to witness,
Agonizing to be a remote part of,
Calling and visiting when i can.
And then I think it’s too fast.
We thought we were ready,
After all she was almost 90.
But it still happened too fast.
One day,
Her mind was mostly there,
The next day it was gone.
Sometimes it comes back
For a minute or two.
If we’re lucky, more.
And then she disappears again.
And we walk the fine line
Between wishing she could just go to sleep
Forever
And be fully at peace.
And hating ourselves for wishing that.
Selfish? Love?
Unconditional ties that bind,
Hoping they won’t be broken.
My mother is dying
And part of me is dying with her.
And part of me is growing in ways
That I wish she could see.
