“She’s in there,” May said.

I could see the Jesus on her sleeve. It didn’t offend me or even put me off. It was, in its way, sweet. “Thank you, May. I’m sure your daughter is still with you.”

“No, she’s not,” she said, flatly. With that she got up, smiled, and walked out.

When May was gone from the room, I looked at my daughter and realized that she had disappeared during my brief conversation, that, in fact, she, Sarah, was not in the room and not in that small body, had not been there, would not be there. While I watched her, she experienced a seizure; it hardly mattered. I wiped her lips and chin clean with a white cotton towel.

Meg blamed herself for Sarah’s wound and, I believe, somehow worked that into blame for her condition. It was irrational, fairly obvious to anyone outside her head, but real and effective enough. We might have survived our daughter’s death, but the process of her dying was killing us, certainly driving us apart. We took turns sitting with Sarah and were almost never there together. Weeks passed.

Months passed. Sarah faded more. Even May’s smile faded. The sun remained bright every day. The moon moved around the sky. And I continued to sit in that room, now in a recliner beside my daughter’s bed or wheelchair.

One Wednesday I glanced out the window and saw a shadow. It was high noon and sunny. A young bear had come down from the mountain. He had found the red sugar water of a hummingbird feeder and was sitting on his fat ass, lapping it up. The sight was a joyous one for me; it was the bear that Sarah had been looking for her entire life. I pushed her chair to the window. I looked at my daughter’s empty eyes. I looked at the bear. It was so big, so real, so alive. I put my arms around my child and cried. “Please, see the bear, baby. Please.”

I weighed close to two hundred pounds. I had large hands. The thread count of the bedding in Sarah’s room could not have been better than 180. It felt a little scratchy against my palms. The fabric of the pillow slip was not slippery at all. Sarah didn’t move much. She never moved much. She would never again move much, move at all. I told my daughter I loved her. She knew that I loved her.

As I left the building, May gave me a long look, offered a gentle smile.

“There was a bear outside,” I said.

“I saw him,” she said. “Is she sleeping?”

“She is.”

“I’ll just let her rest then.”

“Thank you, May.”

ursa

the bird flies out;

the bird flies back again

It was hotter in New Mexico.