Air
Sunbeams pierced the window, landing
on my arms with startling warmth.
Her soft voice, “It won’t hurt you.”
She rocked my sister, nursed
as I played at the base of her chair.
Particles swam in the light,
and I suddenly grasped
they were there all the time.
After fear came awe.
I reached out to hold, but air
is elusive. I could only change waves
with gentle breaths.
When my mother was dying,
she rested in a small bed and spoke
to the air. Her passing, something new
to fear. I read books by her side,
watched sunbeams slip in and shift
across her face, mystery-dust dancing
on her brow.
Published in JAMA, January 18, 2022
Lynette Lamp 