I don’t recognize Mom. Her head is shaved and scarred, and down her throat, there’s a breathing tube.
The surgeon says her chances of survival are low.
I lay my rosary in her palm and curl her fingers around it.
Hours I stay at her bedside, caressing her hand.
“Mom, I’m here.”
She remains still. Her eyes shut.
“Mom…I’ll miss our two-hour phone calls…and how you always tell me…I’m your queen of queens.”
Her finger twitches.
“Mom, can you hear me?”
She blinks three times. Each blink the same, slow and steady.
“Yes, Mom, I love you too.”