verge (vʉrj)
the edge, brink, or margin (of something): also used figuratively the verge of the forest, on the verge of hysteria

to tend or incline (to or toward)
to be in the process of change or transition into something else; pass gradually (into) dawn verging into daylight

Saturday, November 14, 2009

Do Go

I waited for the next inhale.  I waited even though I knew there wouldn't be one.  And for an eternity, my own next inhale hung over her, waiting.  I knew this moment was inevitable, and I never saw it coming. As the seconds turned into minutes, uncertainty gave way to finality and I could only rest my forehead on hers and let the weight of the moment wrap us in quiet.

It was just three weeks ago today.  Only three weeks.  I've had so many inhales and exhales in that time, most going effortlessly and unnoticed.  I've laughed until I've cried, and I've cried until I've laughed.  Today it's raining just as it was that day.  I hear her voice.

"I want the popsicle in a tastes better that way".

"I just want to get healthy".

"How much longer do I have to breath this way..."

"I know it's ok.  But I don't like it".

"I'm so tired".

"But I can't make plans".

"Go do go do go do go do go do go do go do go".
(What did she mean? Do go?  Or go do? I urgently needed to know.)

"Yeah, I'm still alive..."

And here, three weeks later, Reilly is curled in my lap and I feel the rhythm of her breathing against me, and its warm reassurance has volume. I pause on the verge of the rest of this day.  Urgency has given way to calm.  I know what to do with this day.  Do go, and go do, because yeah, I'm still alive...

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