On the day my mother died, I sat by her bedside and read the Psalms.
The room was quiet — the need for machines had passed — save for the sound of my voice and my mother’s labored breathing.
Outside her room, the hospital went about its business: Lunch trays were delivered, nurses conferred, a television played too loudly down the corridor.
In her room, my mother and I had stepped off time’s familiar track.
When she died hours later, I knew that on the other side of her hospital room door there awaited, at least for me, an altered world.
Persons:
gunning