Mommy (98) 25/12/25, 10:00 am

Her head hangs down. As always. Like almost everyone in this room. Deathly silence.

Christmas morning. I'm the only one in the otherwise overcrowded parking lot. Everything's deserted. Correction: not dead yet . No one's around. No music. Nothing. Silence. Blank stares. Or heads down.

She's sleeping. Head down. I caress her a bit and kiss her, eyes open for a moment. Just for a moment.

The deathly, opalescent color lifts to something that hopefully has sight . And hopefully recognizes. " It's me, Mommy ." Her neck nods. She sinks back down. Eyes closed. Head down. That agonizing silence again. I say: " It's Christmas Day ." It doesn't register. No movement. " I brought you a present ." No, nothing. I shake her. " I brought you cookies ." A flash of a glance, then nodding off again. I look: how thin she is.

Cookies, once a source of simple happiness. Cookies. Christmas, a source of togetherness. Christmas now: falling asleep. Like every day. Waiting for. Waiting until . More and more losses , in increasingly sad phases.

I try again. " I love you ." Then... eyes open briefly. A brief glance. Mumbling: " Thank you, boy ." Then finally... " Boy ."