The Dust

The space above my mother’s chest is empty as she lies on the hospital bed.

Seconds pass, longer than any I’ve felt before, and then she fills the space.

Inhale.

Exhale.

It is empty again.

I begin to count.

Dust motes dance in the inappropriate sunlight that spills through the east-facing window, planets orbiting each other as though there is nothing else to do.

As though they have all the time that she does not.

5 seconds pass, and the space is still empty.

6.

7.

8.

9.

10.

11.

On the 12th second, she inhales.

I inhale too as she fills the space, the rattle of her breath echoing across the gathered pockets of the room.

I am whole when that emptiness is filled, when I cannot see the dust motes dancing.

She exhales again, and it is empty once more.

I begin to count.