I curl onto her bed for the last time and sleep. She’s small, but even in death she seems strong. I wake up a while later. I want to stay longer. But I know it’s time. I kiss my mother’s forehead. I walk to the door. I turn and look back. Pale light is coming in through the window. It falls on her face. She is not grey. She is beautiful. There is no difference between body and air. Light as lint. Light as cotton fibre.
