Everytime I mow out at Mom and Dads house (weekly) I feel sad. I begin to think of Dad's last breathe, me saying, "Mom, he's going!", how he gasped twice and then...nothing. I remember how I lowered the head of his bed once minute before then, saying, "Just for a second Dad" and then another nurse and I pulled him up so that his feet weren't pressed against the foot of the bed. It was then, that he died. Right after we did that. Right after that. Right after that. I see his open mouth, like a baby bird. I see his sunken eyes. I hear that silence. The absence of breath. I see it over and over and over and over and over. I cannot say that this is why he died. I know that. But it feels like it was the reason sometimes.
Everyhing feels so strange about the cancer time. Not like a dream but...something not quite lucid just the same. Like a fog covered the last 2 years. Like a mist that descended and made everything seem close and thick and difficult and all our own world somehow. Like a deserted island. It's hard to explain.
Mom is doing okay. She sleeps at our house quite often. The empty couch in her living room, too much to bear. The silence of an empty home at night is much different than a quit afternoon.
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