Her Last Breath

She was known for being difficult. Sharp-tongued, outspoken, and unmoved by whether people liked her or not. The staff braced themselves around her, but I found her amusing. She was a Texas woman through and through—direct, tough, and unapologetic even in old age. Her daughter warned us she had never been easy, and she was right. Still, there was something honest about her, something alive. I wanted to know her stories, not soften her edges.

When the end came, she surprised everyone. The fierceness quieted. There was no fight left in her, no resistance. She rested calmly in my arms, her breathing slowing until it simply stopped. It was the first time I had ever felt someone take their last breath. There was no fear in the room, only stillness, as if she had decided it was time and that was enough.

I kissed her and told her I would see her in heaven. It felt natural to say, not rehearsed or dramatic. She had lived loudly, but she left gently. Some people spend their lives teaching you who they are; others teach you something in the moment they leave. She did both, and I never forgot her.