Late Thursday night,after five hours of struggling to breathethrough the titanic gurgle in your throat—only once squeezing my handto let me know you heard me,
you abruptly grasped more resolutelyas one might clutch an arm while fearfully steppingfrom raft to boat on turbulent seas
You gripped my hand as if I were a fulcrumpivoting you from one place to another
And then you opened your eyes,looked at me, closed your eyes,and died—
“Oh, sweetheart, you died,”I cried,“I can’t believe you died.”
In silence, more profound than the deepest forest,I lay next to youmy fingers gently running throughthe soft silky hair on your bellyuntil your core was as cold as the rest of you.
Excerpted from Beloved by Lois Tschetter Hjelmstad.
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