There were tremors in her body and an emptiness in her eyes. She looked straight ahead, pursing her lips carefully, breathing with a heaviness that dared to make each breath her last. And yet she pulled herself out of the recliner, cane held firmly in her right hand, and slowly walked me to the door. I slid my right hand into her left and held it lightly. If these were our last moments together, I would give her all of my love, all of my heart, and all of the tenderness I could offer. The Matriarch.
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Her smooth hand slid into mine as we made our way to the door. Does she know what I only vaguely know? Is this the moment that she fears is the last? I move slowly. "We sure do miss you," I say. "We hope you come home soon." She hugs me twice—her body that has changed into womanhood now stronger than my own—and I wonder. I can see her outline, I know her voice, and I am not quite ready.
I am not quite ready.
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