They don’t leave her. There is always someone sitting with her. Though he texts him to tell him that she no longer responds. When we were there at her bedside her mouth moved and there were little moans coming from it. Not pain, but a wanting to communicate but she couldn’t, she was too deep under the morphine. As she is now. They talk around her, over her and to her. Her sisters and partners come, her children and her husband. They keep up a chatter, just as she would’ve liked them to do. She’d be weeping though, if it had been one of them not her, copiously. Does she want silence? I would. But then I am not her. She thrives on family, on love, on company. So open. So all-embracing. So vital. Even now. Look at the love that comes to her, that emanates from her. You did that, I want to say. You. You with the endlessly-blue eyes. Look what you made. Go well, my love. Find peace. Find light. Find sleep.
