Behind the oxygen mask, her pale lips moved.
No sound came out.
After twenty years, I understood her anyway.
No more crying.
It’s time.
Her other hand shifted beneath the blanket.
Slowly, painfully, she reached inside her clothing and pulled out something small.
The effort made her breathing change.
I leaned closer, afraid she was trying to remove a medical line, but she caught my wrist and pressed the object into my palm.
It was cold.
Metal.
Uneven along one edge.
I closed my fingers around it before I could see what it was.
Gertrude’s grip loosened.
The monitor changed.
One tone stretched into another until the room filled with a single unbroken sound.
A nurse rushed in.
Then another.
Someone guided me away from the bed while calm voices gave instructions I could not follow.
I stood against the wall with both hands clenched at my stomach.
