She Didn't Say A Word

I watched everyone else speak with blind certainty, as though tomorrow was promised to them. Their frantic plans for her return. Three weeks had been enough to ready her room. Their desperate smiles and heavy fussing, as if her stillness was a threat in her own space. Her eyes ran from one face to another, lingering, as if archiving each to memory. She paused. Her gaze accepted the room, then fastened entirely on me. Slowly, her lids dropped with the finality of sleep. She released the absolute thinnest breath and surrendered. She didn't say a word. Her eyes held mine. She didn't have to. We already knew. In that unmoving quiet, this was goodbye. I love you, Ma.