It’s been thirteen days since I held her. She was unconscious at the time, breathing what would be her last breaths. And it’s been seventeen days since she held me. Every so often in those last weeks, she would stretch her arms out and attempt to lift herself. Sitting beside her on her hospital bed, I would reach behind her, wrap my arms behind her back, and lift her up. She would pull me in across her chest and hold me, patting my back. I would cry silent tears. Each time, I wondered, was this the last time she would hold me? And then it was. 

Maybe I thought that if I didn’t write about it, it wasn’t actually true. That I would be able to drive to East Flat Rock, and she would still be there. 

She isn’t.

The funeral home is asking for her obituary. Words fail me. How to sum up a person’s life in mere words? How to capture love in characters and punctuation? 

Shortly after her passing, I left Asheville. There were too many memories, too raw. Am I running to? Or running from? Possibly both? 

Those last days, I sat by her bed. She never woke. I massaged her arms and legs, assisting her failing heart to circulate blood throughout her body. I sang to her. I played her favorite music. I talked to her. I recounted my favorite memories with her. I did not bring up the less favorite memories. What would be the point? I told her how much I loved her. I told her how much everyone loved her. I thanked her for the gifts she had given me. I prayed. I cursed. 

This was not how it was supposed to be. When Mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, Dad took care of her in their home. I moved back east to support Dad. In my head, the plan was that Mom would pass, and Dad and I would be buddies. Dad then contracted a rare blood cancer, and died months later. Dad was my person. We got each other. We supported each other. We celebrated each other. On his deathbed, Dad asked me to take care of Mom. I was angry. That wasn’t what was supposed to happen. Dad had showed he loved me; Mom had not. I couldn’t refuse Dad anything. Ever. I said of course I’d take care of Mom. 

And I did. I moved her to Asheville. I bought a home for the two of us. When she needed more care, I found a facility that could provide that. 

And I came to love her in a way I never had. I have to believe Dad knew what he was asking, and he knew the gift he was giving. By the time Mom passed, I adored her. I adored how she loved on everyone. I adored how she called everyone honey, sweetie. I adored how she smiled, up until she couldn’t. I adored how she wasn’t jaded, and was open to everything. 

And now she’s not. Not in this world. Perhaps in the future I will be able to feel her love from beyond. But right now it’s simply a void. A painful, hollow, seemingly never-ending void.