Her Last Moments

[For my Grandmother who passed away on April 10th in her sleep]
The air is stale in the house.

Close.

Each breath is nearly suffocating to pull into my lungs, an action that would normally take no thought at all.

The smell of death clouds my nose and lingers on my tongue with every inhalation; I feel the walls closing in around me, confining me to this place where the Heaven and earth are trying to intertwine.

I sit quiet at the table, keeping my thoughts to myself as I watch her.

Her eyes are wide, unfocused and glossy, pupils dilated and darting back and forth at something hidden from my sight, skin paper thin to the touch, and her moans of pain are torturous to the ears as well as the soul.

Nausea churns in my stomach; I take another labored breath, pushing life giving air into my body.

Her eyes connect with mine, but my skin can't help but crawl as it seems that she is not looking at me, but through me.

I'm supposed to help care for her, but instead I feel as though I'm watching her fade away into a world unseen.

The words that spill from her lips in incoherent mumblings are from the place of her birth, but not of mine.

Any last advice for life that she might have given has fallen upon ears that are deaf to her language.

Any last chance for redemption of any wrong doings goes unheeded.

Any last request is lost in her words.

The mumbles stop and she swallows hard and sighs loudly, tilting her head to the side to rest on the pillow behind her head.

The machine that sustains her hums quietly.

Then ice cold terror coils tightly in my belly.

My muscles clench and my skin is tingling.

Goosebumps spread up and down my arms in a sensation that is as unpleasant as fingernails on a chalkboard.

I can't breathe.

Fear grips me so completely; I almost feel my own life is being drained forcefully from my body.

I grip the table with white knuckles and force myself to stand to my feet, ignoring the warning sirens in my head.

I take a tentative step toward the chair that is in front of me.

I reach out toward a limp, wrinkled hand.

My own is shaking.

My fingertips touch chilled skin.

My eyes notice the erratic rise and fall of her chest has ceased.

I lock my jaw as I turn her wrist over to feel for a pulse.

There is none.

Holding the icy hand in my own, I reach up to shake her shoulder gently.

I call her name.

No response.

My touch turns frantic.

I call her again.

Still no response.

I reel back in horror, knocking into the table, pushing several items to the floor.

She died.

Right in front of me.

My heart pounds inside my chest, threatening to break through my ribcage.

I somehow find my way to the living room and sit heavily on the couch.

The eerie sound of silence is only broken by my quiet sobs.

The machine that sustains her hums quietly.

The air is stale in the house.

Close.