“You took your time,” she whispered.
That almost undid me.
I went to her bedside and took her hand very carefully, as if the years between us might bruise.
“I came as fast as I could.”
“I know.”
I sat there for a long time without speaking, just looking at her and letting the impossible fact of her settle inside me.
Her hand was warm.
Her eyes filled, then mine did too, and suddenly we were both old and weeping like bereaved people.
“I thought I might miss you,” I said finally.
“You almost did,” she answered, but she smiled when she said it.
Later that afternoon, the doctor asked to speak with Ellen and me in the hallway.
The words were gentle. So gentle, I knew before they were finished that they would not save us.
Margaret had significant damage, the doctor said.
They could keep her comfortable and give her some time, but not much.
