Small miracles at a time!
By Jing Villamil
SHE sat still on her son’s swivel chair. Its thickly padded back, neck and head rest seemed to swallow all of her; she had lost so much weight the past nights, days. From tight grip of the cup of coco on her palms, she raised a little pinky to crack a peek through the blue curtains. There! The moon had puffed unbelievably huge! And so, lunar full, had turned her calm world to mad!
She turned her gaze back to the room. Her son’s breathing still sounded rough, but not too labored as at the start of the sickness. Thank you, she whispered. To no one, to everyone. And she believed a thumb or more, signed its up in the air.
Slowly, wearily, she pulled herself up from the neat circle of monitors now not busy, but blank-faced, idly lounging in the dark. Still clasping her cup, she shuffled her way out the room, down the circular stairs to the second floor. This time, she sat on cold wooden step. She leaned her ear and squinted her eyes against glass wall. She made out five sleeping forms – her daughter and her young family. She heard no rugged gasping for air, no tearing of the lungs. Again, she whispered to the air. To no one, to everyone. Thank you. The bad has not worsened to its worst.
She believed more thumbs upped in the air. And a smile pulled out and up lips she had bitten hard into raw swell.
Leaning, she closed her eyes. And drifted off. Just, for a little while, dears. Just for a wee while. Gods, blessed mother, saints, guardian angels, souls and spirits nodded. Touched hands; well, almost. And went on with the watch.
This was not a dream retold. Nor was it a sequel to a play. She lives it still.
When you pray with her, you pray with me.
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