Her hands are so smooth. The skin on her fingers like chenille to my touch.
Her forehead is parchment beneath my lips when I kiss her before I leave the room.
The skin on her thighs is puckered like crumpled velvet.
Never have I been more aware of my mother’s body than I am now. I watch her pulse race through her throat. I see her lips purse to suck water off a sponge. I witness her writhe when her spine twists. It’s all about the body now.
Mostly, I sit and count when her chest doesn’t rise . . . . 1 2 3 . . . and then I find myself counting the breaths between the counting . . . 1 2 3 4. Then, pause again. It strikes me that this, too, is her rhythm, her musical spirit whispering out. 1 2 3. 1 2 3 4. 1 2 3 4 5 . . .