I crouched down next to her chair, looking up at her face. The stroke had taken away the attention of half of it, but the other peered down at me.
“So, “Ann”, are you on the way out?”
“Yeah, yeah I am.”
“Are you scared?”
“No, not at all. It’s time.”
I asked her what mattered, but couldn’t quite catch her reply. It was obvious, though. Deathbeds sharpen priorities.
“If I get scared, my priest just said to kiss this”, she told me, pulling out a crucifix, and kissing it. “Gives me something to do.”
She asked about what I’ve been up to, so I brought her news of the world that she’d soon be leaving…stories of horses, mountains, and tractors. We laughed a bit. With teary eyes, I told her I loved her, and valued being her friend. What were the chances I was in town on one of her last days? What a gift.
Then a strange thing happened: the clock, with it’s impersonal hands, waved me towards the door. I couldn’t stay, and I doubt she would have wanted me to, anyway. Her son was there, and everyone was so glad of that. She asked him if he knew how to get in touch with me - I’m guessing for funeral arrangements. How odd, the persistence of time.
Bidding her goodbye, I didn’t say I’d see her soon. We both knew I wouldn’t. Leaning in for a hug, and then it was out the door.
She died Sunday. I’ll miss her.