A Passing Moment

I opened the door; her kind eyes met mine so lovingly, colored the same kind of blue I remembered as a child. For a moment, it was as though the clocks stopped, and we had all the time in the world. I was little again. She studied my vocabulary words with me giving me tips on how to spell words and how to use them correctly. Despite the shadow of the day closing in around us, she indulged my love for words, crowning me vocabulary champion supreme before preparing a quick dinner of homemade soup.

The light in her room was cold and harsh, unlike the warm light in her kitchen where we often sat on cold winter mornings drinking hot chocolate with the comforting heat emanating from her open oven door. We spent ages at that table, sometimes quietly talking, sometimes just silently enjoying the other’s company.

Her hands were arthritic—pale, frail and rough—full of callouses from years of hard work. I took her hands in mind, remembering the strength they’d once possessed, although the hardest work I’d ever seen her do was cooking, quilting, and playing the piano. She did such wondrous things with her hands. Suddenly, I fiercely regretted not having paid better attention when she tried to teach me and share her knowledge with me, in a way that she’ll never do now.

The wrinkles between her eyebrows whispered of far more serious expressions, of which I had only seen directed at me once—the day she caught me wearing makeup without her permission. I broke my ankle in gym class. She was called and found me lying on a stretcher on the gym floor, my left ankle twisted to one side. She looked at my ankle, turned her head sharply giving me a hard look—the kind that can only travel from mother to daughter. "What's that on your face?" she asked, lifting a disapproving eyebrow.

All at once the moment passed. Her kind blue eyes turned cold and lifeless. The heart monitor blared, heralding the passing of my best friend.

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