Ding

By Huina Zheng

For my sixth birthday, my mother gave me a piggy bank. Every time I dropped in a coin, it made a little ding. She said that once it was full, I could buy anything I wanted. Ding, a little more; ding, a little closer.

Mom, now I sit beside your bed. Every beep of the heart monitor rises and falls with your chest. I count them. One. Two. Thirty thousand. I don’t know after which one there will be nothing else. I want to hear that childhood ding again from those innocent days. Tell me there will be another sound tomorrow.