Her upturned face, lips a dark purple, hands open by her shoulders as if she were asking a question. She had said death would be an adventure and even her wrinkles vanished in the rush upward.
I pulled back the covers and got in her bed — her chest and belly still slightly warm, her skin over her cheekbones cool — touched her lifted chin, her left palm, her right, the cold tip of her curled pinky, her pointing finger still pointed up, each of her darkening nails; touched her thick, brown hair its one shock of white at the forehead where she flew out.
Then I lay against her stillness. There was nowhere else on earth I could know nothing.
There is a soul that is the body, that her body, over a lifetime, had become.
I placed my palm over her left eye and pulled the lid down till it was closed like the other, but it opened again.
I caught the glimpse back:
she no longer belonged to me, this woman who happened to be my mother. I had no case against her, there was nothing to forgive. Mermer Blakeslee
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