Outside in

On the outside, a line of trees full with dark red leaves. Beautiful, if not out of place in December. On the outside, the Christmas cards begin to arrive. Two addressed to Mr. and Mrs. I take the envelopes, wonder how they got past the letters I wrote last year.

On the outside, I take a deep breath, consider this hammock between losses past and future. I walk through the door. On the inside, she's calling out for help.

I sit beside her, wrap my hand around hers.

Are you okay, Mom?

I'm dying.

She closes her eyes purposefully, then opens her eyes and sighs, dissapointed to be here.

I wish I was dying, I want to die. She looks up at me, asks, Will you help me?

Mom, no, I cannot do that. I hold hold her hand tighter.

Please.

Mom, you need to talk to God.

She gives me a weak smile, says, I have. She pauses a second, then continues. I asked him to hurry, but he's not.

Mom, do you really want that? Do you really want to die?

Yes.

She closes her eyes again.

This is what it's like. This is where she is and who she is. Her body is failing and failing her. She'll not try anymore, she wants out. It's like watching a baby, the need, the hours, the love and attention, the feeding and changing. The depth of feelings in the heart. But there's no hope and promise for the future, no delight at forward steps. The future has been had, there's a different direction now, a different position between mother and daughter. On the inside, there's a heart filled with love that can make no difference to a heart filled with desire to exit.

On the outside, a red leaf relinquishes its hold on a branch.