The Race.

 My mother lay in her bed , too weak to speak or move. I tried to feed her minute pieces of fresh, peaches. My brother angrily asked me what I was doing. He thought she could still feed herself. He was in denial.
 I would wash her frail body, hairless and shrunken. The chemo did a fine job; the poison racing to beat the cancer, shrinking her into an old child's body.
 Finally, after three falls in two days, her head in staples, she was admitted to hospice. Every morning, I would race there to remove the harness and alarm, so that my family could not see this entrapment. She wanted to go home, although she had no idea where home was. She was a fighter, tearing her diaper off, removing her gown........another race every morning to clothe her in decency.
 One Friday afternoon, we were finally alone. She had already received last rights that morning. She was slipping away, her eyes closed, but I could tell she was aware to a degree. It was as if she was in a dark room, lost and afraid. I assured her she would go into a peaceful place, that her own mother was waiting for her.
 I called everyone and told them she was near her death. I knew it would be at seven, her passing. I was right.
 Hospice told  me to clean her room, as it ws needed for another poor soul. My mother lay peacefully in bed, no harness, no alarm. I played Elton John as I said good bye. I packed her belongings, in shock, that she was actually gone.
 From time to time, my mother comes to me in my dreams. In these dreams she is unaware she is dead and I have to tell her. Again, she races, trying to beat the clock.