Éléna Bigalke

A notebook, an amethyst and a picture

Never before have I felt this numbing sensation in my stomach. A strange blend of sadness and anxiety is making my head spin, which makes my vision blurry as if I were dreaming. I walk into her room, my heartbeat accelerating with every step I take. It is the first time I walk through that door since she passed away in her bed a month ago. Her departure, as heartbreaking was it, was not a surprise to anyone; lung cancer fighters rarely make it for more than four years, like she did. But my gran-mother, Marguerite, was not only the strongest, most determined person I knew, but also an undeniable dreamer. The last night of her life, she shared with me once again her hopes to find an incredibly effective cure to her illness that could allow us to go to Paris together, so I can finally visit the city in which I was born. As I laughed imagining how wonderful that scenario could be, I drank my last sip of tea and got up to get her a fresh glass of water. By the time I was back she had already fell asleep, in result of the obnoxious quantity of medications she had been prescribed. I kissed her forehead and went home, unaware that it would be the last time I would see her laying there so peacefully in her bed. After I left, the universe took her away from her sufferings. She fell asleep peacefully and simply never woke up. A well-deserve rest for a fierce fighter.