She couldn't speak properly anymore
but she knew how to ask for her mirror, comb and powder.

She wanted to look chic; nothing more
when I could smell her perfume turning souer.

I set there.. Holding her hand for an hour or so.
Carressing it and getting replies every now and then with pressure too low.

I kissed this hand for the first time in my life.. I kissed it twice:
I communicated properly with an old version of my own mother through the wrinkled hand.

She didn't have to speak anymore. I understood that she was leaving.. So tired to carress mine that she had to leave.

And this morning of September I see her blue silent face wrapped
in a white fabric - looking so alive yet so anxious to leave.