I can still feel her silky soft hair, and the coolness of the skin on her forearms. Every time I see her I am afraid it will be the last time. There is always that risk, isn't there? Any time we see anyone, it could very well be the very last time. It is probably good to remember this, and act accordingly, though many of us rarely do. It is just as it is with the uncensored excitement we might feel inside when seeing them again after a respite. Delight in the simplicity of an encounter. With my Mom, now at 93, death feels like a not too distant presence drifting about, barely seen, but heard, and felt in the faces of some of the folks that currently inhabit the place where she lives.
This presence of imminent absence seems oddly benevolent, even soft, like her hair. And I am scared. I am scared of losing her; I am scared of being in her situation. She tells me she has lost so many friends in the past year. And that at times she is afraid she will go to sleep and not wake up.