Nine little deaths

There is a project I am thought to have finished next Friday.

Not one line I wrote today.

End of the beforegoing.

She is 87. For the past two years I have been – as I call it – her life-whisperer.

Today I felt my magic is fading. Nine times – each time out of the blue while we were talking – sighs. Suddenly. Her eyes far far away. Her body stiffening (if that's the right word).

In the next moment my right arm around her, holding her right shoulder, the left hand taking her right: "I am here. mmmm ... I am here. Hear me, mother? I am with you. Hear me?"

After a few seconds: "Yes." – Yes? – "Yes, I hear you."

Relief. Nine times. Nine times. Nine times!

In between: Anecdotes. Many. Wisdom. Deep wisdom. Yes. Death was a topic, too. Naturally, hm? Lots of laughter. Heartily laughter. Both being aware of ... the possibilities.

But please don't immediately close my coffin ... hahaha ... I might not be dead.

Please, don't buy anything new. Take the red sweater and the green skirt. They will be easy to put on when I am not too stiff. And ...

Got me?

You ought to be glad that my knowledge of the English language is but rudimental.

Otherwise I'd perhaps/probably bore you with a wonderful story. A story that could teach you quite some tiny bits about life and death, about trust and (a kind of) love.

In lieu thereof I shall shut up.

Will I find sleep?

I hope both we will wake up in the morning.

That's life.

The peace of the night.