in the tiny hallspace between the settee room ( the someone’s wireless receiving place ) where frances sleeps and my mother’s bedroom. she is also sleeping. just waking up, it’s almost five. I hear birdsong and ask my mother if she hears it too.
she says nothing.
she was alert and with us, with the hospice doc and nurse, and friends who came to her yesterday. not all of the day, but some of it, after days of resting. deeply, I need to believe.
you know the thing when you hear the ticking, a clock in the room, it always ticks, but you never always hear it? I hear it just now and my mother quietly making sound, sighing almost.
frances’ deep and steady breathing.
mom’s, slower. but there. now.