She plugs her ears to listen to her heartbeat, searching for answers in the slowly weakening rhythms that have no intention of coming.
She’s exhausted.
Exhausted from living.
Exhausted from dying.
Exhausted from waiting for an inevitable personal apocalypse.
Most of all she’s exhausted from the radiation, exhausted from the chemo.
But she never sheds a tear.
She harbors no fear, shows no anger, and has only love for this place.
This place…
This place so full of violence, so full of hate.
In this place where ulterior motives release the wheel, she remains the shining, solitary example of benevolence, of selflessness that reaches up from the passenger seat to guide the car back onto the asphalt of this life. The last of a dying breed.
And indeed, dying she was.
Once again I fall asleep with my head on her chest.
But this time is different. The rhythm is steadily rocking me into unconsciousness, a song without words…
Hand in hand we drift off to a place where the material doesn’t matter, the anger doesn’t matter, the sickness…
doesn’t matter.
The last thing I hear before the exhaustion takes us both is a whispered three words that have never meant more than they did at that moment, from those lips...
Sleep comes…
and there are no dreams.
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