My Mum is dying. Holding on to life by a thread. Her usual tight grasp of the thread is weakening by the day.
To watch is torment.
To leave is hell.
Age matters no more when a parent is leaving, you are the child again.
The lost, the longing.
That smile, that hand, that look of care.
They are no longer there.
What once was is leaving forever.
Stubborn to the last, she wants no fussing and nobody there. This is when it is so very, very difficult to be turned away. I know why she is doing it, she is being herself and doesn’t want to draw attention, be a bother. She doesn’t want to see the tears and hear the sadness, she just wants it all to end.
In the meantime the world rolls on, time seems to stand still but rush by at an alarming rate.
Like falling into deep water, one can lose bearings and not know which way is up and which is down.
The last flowers are fading in the garden. Their petals bend with the weight of their tears.