Life as an Extreme Sport

photograph, all I’ve got is a photograph, and it’s not enough

I wish I could take a picture of what I see before me. It’s an oddly beautiful image, and one I would love to keep external to my mind, but I’m pretty sure my sister would kill me if I even tried. She is sitting in front of the end table holding medicine and supplies, reading a pamphlet the chaplain left for us. The lamp on the table is on, catching on the edges of her glasses and eyes as she looks from pamphlet to Mom and back again.

Mom is lying in bed, arms extended in front of her, hands resting on either side of a knee. Her nightgown is far too long, and her sternum is visible, St. Peregrine pendant resting slightly to the left, the way she leans. Multiple pillows and towels have been used to prop her upright. Her eyes are closed, mouth open. The expression on her face is mostly peaceful, sometimes marred with what looks like pain. Her shallow breathing shakes her entire body, clavacl almost heaving forward with every breath. Curled at her feet is the chocolatey cinnamon mottled calico, Molly.

It is an oddly beautiful, strangely peaceful scene – one I wish could be recreated elsewhere, instead of my inadequate words and personal memory.

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