NOT WHAT YOU THINK –
Nov. 9, 2024 – She reached out her other hand and gently touched my nose with her index finger. She’d never touched me this way before. At first, I thought she was saying I see you or I know you. But she was trying to make a point. She then took the same finger and touched her own nose. In the faintest but clearest voice she said one word: “Lucky.”
Lucky. I let the word wash over me. I wanted Mom to know I’d heard her, and I repeated back the same word. When I said it, I felt as if I was signing a contract between us.
“Lucky.”
The knowledge of what was happening — and how close we were getting to the end — could have filled this moment with profound sadness. But the word felt like an exhale — an observation that was expansive, not final. Before I could make sense of what she meant, she let go of my hand and her head sunk back further into the pillow.
“I need to shut my eyes,” she told us quietly.
