by caccy46

When three months pregnant, it took very little for my stomach to heave or my throat to constrict at smells that once delighted my senses; but this stench of disease would even sicken those whose worked with the dying. It was the smell of rotting tissue stinking, released through pores; it was shiny, thick goo oozing out her vagina from a malignant uterus. She lay with teeth exposed, blackened from liquid morphine that could not quiet the moans of her pain-wracked body. Her breath was very slow; and I counted them per minute, wanting to be there for the last one. As the school bus approached for his first day of school, my six year old cried for his beloved Nana. I put him in the car and drove as fast as I could to his classroom and raced home again, just in time for the nurse to meet me at the top of the stairs telling me I had missed her, she was gone.


caccy46, author of Ashes to Ashes, is 60 years old, a mother of two, and has been married for 32 years.