In the Morning

I went back this morning, after texting R. to see if C. was still on the planet. She was. I came in to her room with coffee again. Chair was just where I'd left it. Same grey ice outside, same nice Pandora-ish music on. Her face was sharper, her mouth a perfect O, apnea longer.  I called her son, spoke to him briefly, he was glad I was there and he said none of them were coming in. He was glad I called and the facility nurses were glad I called. And I just leveled with C. and told her the truth, that they were not coming again, but that they loved her and had come and that it was just fine to either take her time or go ahead and go. Her breathing changed, became so shallow, I would think it was the last one and then she would give a tiny hitch. I'm not sure the exact moment she died. I felt for her pulse on her wrist and at her neck, I put my hand on her heart, felt her hands, touched her face. I said all kinds of words, all loving, some surprising me, because - do I really think I'll see her sometime, on the other side? Do I really think she is beginning a new day of light, and joy, and health, and peace today? Those were the words that came out of my mouth though, and honestly, as I spoke them I meant them. It surprised me, because a dead body is a dead body and that was and is abundantly clear to me too. I got to be there for the miracle of death this morning. I thank her for that and perhaps any forces that put me there. It makes New Years Eve pale in comparison, that's for sure. I need a shower and I think a good cry in the shower, because all that from this morning has got to come out somehow and I don't drink anymore.