By Viccy Simon
Viccy Simon is a student in Writing Class Radio. She wrote this story in response to a prompt in class.
It ended in the ICU.
It ended after I’d told my mom all the ways she’d left the world in better shape than she found it.
It ended after I’d thanked her for Halloween costumes, and birthday cakes, and for peeling the hard-boiled eggs she packed in my lunchbox.
It ended after I’d filled up my sister’s voicemail with messages begging her to come soon.
It ended after I’d thanked my mom for teaching me to drive a stick.
It ended after I’d sung all the songs Mom used to sing to me when I was little.
It ended when I was hoarse with the talking and singing.
It ended when I’d texted my sister for the umpteenth time.
It ended when I was sure my mom was sick of my voice because I was sick of my voice. It ended after I pleaded with the doctor to keep her breathing just until morning in case my sister had managed to catch that overnight flight from Arizona.
It ended after the doctor told me that he could give her more morphine but she would die sooner and I opted for later and then regretted it when the doctor had left the floor and my mom started thrashing.
It ended after my sister called from the airport and said, “I told you I’d get here and I did.”
It ended after my sister rushed in and held my mother’s hand.
It ended before my sister said one word.
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