At the Edge

I sat on the edge of your hospital bed,
ate your manicotti—
you scolded me;
they were counting your bites.

That was our last moment
of mother and daughter,
before everything floated
beyond this Earth.

The next day, I sat with you
as the doctor said
there was nothing more
that could be done.

Death sat with us—
gentle, deliberate.
Slow,
and yet impossibly swift.

I had never seen you so small,
so fragile.
Your gray eyes hidden,
mouth shaped like mine—
only the ventilator
broke the resemblance.

Death announced himself
and gave us time—
but only hours
to say goodbye.

Later, you stood in my dream
at the foot of my bed,
smiling—
as if to say,
“I’m still here.”