She lay in the bed and began to close her eyes.
She remembered her life.
Her father. His dark eyes reflected the lights of the Christmas tree. The soft hairs on his arms as he held her, she can’t remember how young. He smelled of aftershave. Sound, no sound. But a strong physicality present in the chest. This the strength of her father. He was there, the beginning, and ever on, and now.
Her eyes continued to close. A single strand of color began to fade from her left iris.
Her mother. She stood with an oven mitt and the house smelled of potatoes boiling. Sound of bubbling water and hush of the stove flame. The kitchen table was set, the water glasses filled halfway because there was no time to do everything. Outside it was dark, winter and shorter days. A little girl, she watched her mother empty the dishwasher.
Now her eyelids were half closed. Color was going in all places, into an absent gray.
Her brother wrestled her to the carpet. They fought, teenagers. She’d lost something of his, by accident, but no matter. She screamed, she hated him; he did the same. They separated and, later, in her room, alone, her fast pulse slowed and became sadness and guilt. Then her brother knocked on the door, sat on the edge of her bed, and said he was sorry and loved her.
One single upper eyelash touched its lower twin, as her eyes continued to draw down.
Her husband. Their first kiss, it felt like a carnival ride. A rope knot coming undone within her. He held her hand, and she saw how shy he was, so she squeezed his hand and he looked at her suddenly, braver than before. He would buy her honey at a store. His voice, he said it was for her tea, to bring her smiles when she was cold.
Now her eyelashes were colliding all at once. Behind them still the gleaming curve of her eyes, but the light dimming.
Herself. At home, she looked in her bathroom mirror. Her bald head, her hair gone. Her skin yellowed and bruised. Sickness in her limbs. All ached. She thought all hideous and she thought all hollow. She could not cry. She was too young.
Only a slit remained between her eyelids. Through this window was a glimmer, faint, so faint, yet still there.
Her father kneeled beside the bed and held her left hand in his, she could feel the soft hair of his arm and smell his aftershave. Her mother stroked her naked head and breathed soft words into her ears and she smelled of home. Her brother stood somewhere close and she heard him cry and say he loved her. Her husband held her right hand in his, said nothing, but squeezed her tighter. She thought something beautiful.
The light disappeared. Her eyes closed.
And she died.