The Day

There was this one day. Before I knew it was one of the final days, but after I began to think it might be. My mom was confined to her bed, and we all thought she’d be up again. I’d come home to San Francisco from Los Angeles, a little drunk because I hate to fly, and popped into her room around 9 o’clock at night. I remember her laughing because I burped.


But that’s not the day.


It was the next one.


I spent most of the hours in bed with her, both of us holding back apologies from a life of talking backs and imagined hurts.


Everyone hoped we’d say sorry.


Instead I made her laugh more, and wrote down who would get what, just in case.


She wanted me to have her pearls.


Later that night, she asked for a sip of red wine in a crystal goblet. I made her minestrone too, hoping she’d eat some.


I cleaned her bed pan.


I never said sorry, but she knew, didn’t she.


That would be the day.


Because I live it 1,000 times without her.


And I’d like to have her there, one more time and always.


{This is in response to today’s PROMPTuesday.}


One Response to “The Day”

  1. Shana says:

    Ouch. This is hitting a little too close to home for me right now. But so beautifully written.

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