She lays there in the dim light, the oxygen pump
the only thing breathing in the room. I should turn it off I know, but I can't seem to make my body move from the doorway.

One eye closed, another barely open, vacant, unseeing, the light faded to black. Her lips pursed as if ready to take a drag off that last cigarette, and her head cocked slightly to one side as if laughing one last time at the world.

Her granddaughter, my child, without tears, stares in disbelief nudging me into movement, what seemed like hours were actually seconds, and I moved silently to the machine and flipped the switch, the room now eerily silent.

I  touch her head, as if touching a child, and remove the tubing from her nose, closed that barely staring eye, pulled the covers up to her chin, as if to tuck her in one last time, and kissed her cool waxy cheek, closing the door as I leave to make the calls I've been dreading for months.

Everybody has been called, it's late now, where are the body snatchers, it seems like hours since I called the funeral home, it has only been ten minutes. My child is leaving, friends have come for her, kissing my cheek she hurriedly apologizes for the grief and fear that is forcing her out of the house, as she dashes out the door.

How ironic, this should happen tonight, tomorrow's my birthday, perhaps she planned her last departure this way.  Her small house seems to echo as I walk around, it has never felt so empty, and neither have I, now that those who made me have both gone.

I look down the short hall, the closed door beckons me, I move slowly toward it, my hand turns the knob, as it swings open, the faint smell of a cigarette, sound of a pull tab, and that familiar giggle invades my head. Then a knock at the front door breaks in, the body snatchers are here. As I turn to go, a smile crosses my lips, small tears well up, closing the door I realize it's only Mama's spirit smoke letting me know she's happy.

©2003 Lloydene F. Hill