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.
