I peel an orange beside her hospital bed.
Does she smell it?
Does it bring a thought
of sun
of life
of sadness?
Is my mother's brain
processing still?
Does she feel herself drifting,
life floating further and further away,
unable to grab it
to hold it
to keep it here awhile longer?
I feel her gasping breaths,
one terrible awful
inhalation at a time,
every single one making me wonder
Will another breath follow?
I wait.
I hope.
Please breathe.
Please stop.
