scent memory

sometimes i'm still in my mother's hospice bed,

stroking her hair and holding her hand, smelling the sickness.

i could smell her death, you know? smell it coming.

between the catheter and hepatic drain, you would think it would have been a ghastly odor.

instead

a faintly vanilla scent wafted through alcohol and antiseptic, covering any other potential stench.

if you got close enough, though, as i often did, you could make out what was behind the sweetness: her putrid breath.

a liver failing. a body decaying rapidly. the smell of organic matter. meat. rotten.

i tried to get rid of it. to fill her empty stomach and coax her back to the living.

i ordered her favorite smoothie and tried putting a small drop on her tongue. it slid down her lips and chin until i wiped it away with my sleeve.

i remember she died not long after that. 5/2/20, 18:19.

the mortician took her body within the hour.

carelink took the bed and medical equipment the next day.

the untouched smoothie stayed in the fridge for several weeks.