"The Smoothie Stayed"

Sometimes,

I'm still in the hospice bed of my mother, My hand encircled hers. as if I could hold her back. I played with her hair, sluggish from illness, and attempted to recall what her previous scent was.

However, I could smell her dying. Yes, I knew it was coming. Not horrifying. Filmic in nature. Simply real. Nuanced vanilla through a haze of antiseptic.

If you got really close, — closer than necessary — There was it: stinking breath, a liver's abdication, the meat's slow decay still warm.

She received smoothies from me. Her favorite.

Mango-peach.

Bright, chilly, and alive. One squirt. That's all I could give her.

It fell from her lips, chin,

into her hospital gown's creases. I scrubbed it away. using the same sleeve with which I previously brushed her hair. She passed away shortly after.

5/2/20.

18:19.

Without sound There was no noteworthy last sigh. The mortician came like a shadow.

The following day, the bed vanished. However, the smoothie — that terrible smoothie — remained frozen for several weeks, silent,

waiting for something that never happened. I sometimes consider There's a smell to grief. Decay isn't always the case. Mango is sometimes present. vanilla, and and a person's breath You continue to wish to save.