The longest night

Up all night. With her on one side of the bed. My aunt and I curled up on the opposite corners--her at the head, me at the foot. My nani on the couch in the bedroom. My uncle in the bedroom down the hall. My dad on the sofa downstairs, then upstairs wondering why he can't bring her juice as he usually does at midnight; wondering why he can't help her to the bathroom as he usually does at 2:30 a.m.

Her breathing, so light and with a moan on the inhale. Or maybe the exhale. Waiting. I get up. Work. I go back to sleep. And then I think about As I Lay Dying. You think funny thoughts on no sleep. You question whether you're the Bundrens. Your dad is like Anse. My mother is a fish. But everything seems clearer in the morning. Everything seems better in the morning.

Only it's not.

She's aware of us here with her. And I can't tell if we're doing enough to get rid of the pain. She can barely swallow down her pills. She can barely swallow. And we wait. We wait. Til 9 o'clock or hopefully earlier. Til the nurse will come and make something happen better. For us and for her. She still responds to me when I say, "Ma?" She'll say "Mama" (her nickname for me, pronounced Muh-ma).

It's okay. It's okay. It's okay.

Only it's not.

And I pray for deaths that are quick and quiet.