I park my car and sit for a few moments

in a visitor spot, but I'm not listening

to NPR anymore. I sit in silence,

breathe deeply, and prepare myself

for what awaits in the apartment before me.

I get out and walk to the entrance,

jangling my keys, not knowing

how she is on the other side.

I open the door to find it quiet this time,

no hospice nurse or hovering chaplain,

just my sister sitting at her bedside

reading a book. She waves at me.

I go directly to the bedside and take

my mother's chilly hand. “Hi, Momma,

I'm here.” Her eyes flicker open,

and there's a moment of disorientation

before she smiles, “Hi, baby.”

That's me, the 42-year-old baby of the family.

“How've you been sleeping?” I ask her.

“Not so much,” she says.

“I doze, but I don't really sleep.”

My sister nods her agreement

from the other side of the bed.

“She's in a liminal space,” my therapist tells me

as I stare at the flickering candle on the table between us,

“and you can't follow her.” I know this logically,

but I seem to be lagging behind emotionally

and spiritually. “I know,” I say. “She's at the threshold;

we can only hold her hand so long. But the letting go

sucks the big one.” My counselor laughs at the juxtaposition.

I shake my head. “I'm not sure what to do about the whole thing,

And I'm not sure what I believe anymore.”

“Believe about what, exactly?” She prods.

“About … about God. About whether there is a reason

or even a rhyme anymore. I used to be able to write it out,

at least get it on paper, but I can't even get a word

to come from my pen.” “Are you upset

about your mother dying

or because you have writer's block?” She asks

in all seriousness. And the answer is simply,

“Yes.”