She seemingly half-sleeps upon the hospital bed, laboring for each breath, her life waning before our eyes. Her skin is cold, her eyelids half open, yet half closed. Her breathing is raspy and open-mouthed.

Drops of solution from the I.V. slide down the tube and into her arm. The sheets cover her from foot to midriff, tightly encasing her like a papoose. A hospital bracelet circles her aged wrist.

The family mills about in the tiny room, uncertain of what to do, or expect next. Those that can fathom the enormity of what is happening stay closest to her, while the others slowly filter from the room, unable to breath in the emotional abyss. Her daughters hold her hands, telling her that all her children are present. She seems to hear them, for her breathing becomes less labored. They continue to talk to her, patting her hand and stroking her hair, telling her that everyone is okay, that everything will be fine.

Her chest rises and falls less and less until it rises no more. There is no sound, no drama, no sign of any change, save the silence. The doctor enters, placing her stethoscope to the still form and listens. Nodding to the nurse, who now turns off the monitor completely, she turns to the family and tells them their mother is gone.

(and so did I bear the privilege of witnessing the final moments of this friend of the family.)