Dead of Winter

We’re in the death room. Waiting. She doesn’t respond. Her eyes don’t widen when I enter. The half of her face that still works doesn’t curve into a smile. No, almost gone now. Almost dead.

The sound of air down her throat rattles — in, out, in, out — like a robot that operates out of duty, habit, without any likelihood of waking one day. It won’t be long now.

The death room: an uncomfortable in-between place of waiting. We sit in plastic chairs nurses have set. Winter now, the bird feeders...