She knew me as well as I knew her and I didn’t know her all too well thinking about it.

In a photo, waving a bright orange ribbon that matched her figure skating outfit with her short dark hair framing her fair-skinned face, she flashed one of her megawatt smiles at the camera. Larue Kilorine’s mind had been lost in the years I gained mine.

At sixty-eight years too young, the doctors had said it would be 1-2 months, yet it had only been 2 weeks. Our tongues pickled by tears, shaky breathes and unsteady steps. Coated by dark of the night, speechlessly, we stood in the thick scent of decay. She’s gone.No longer had the sun’s rays peeked through the plastic scented curtains, just like her heart rate, the black speckled sky had fallen.

Her husband stood by her bedside, shakily running his wrinkled hands through her thin strands of hair. Every small detail of her left held his gaze. Fibers of silver and gray, sprawled out against the blue pillowcase. On the bed, she laid, peacefully with her eyes closed. Our quilt-patched family stood together, huddled together. Patting her stomach her husband, Tim, urged me too, “Come feel it.”

My mom nudged me, telling me to go in Thai.  I hesitantly broke out of the circle, even though I didn’t really want to. My sweaty palms met the cold surface of her stomach. It was rock hard because of the Ascites from pancreatic cancer. My hands rested on it for a moment as if  I was waiting for it to push out one last quivering breath, but she was no longer breathing.

The woman who shared a room with Larue, sat in her wheelchair with watery eyes. Watching us digest our last moment with her, the woman choked out,“ She was so sweet.”

As we left, each step, I felt my feet get heavier. One of my aunts nearly crashed into the door while stumbling out the room.

I followed them, thinking of what I was left with of Larue Kilorine. I’d remember the twinkle in her eyes as she’d show me some odd decoration she made of tin foil, acorns or stickers. The creases that were etched in when she threw a tantrum and the crinkles that were melted into her cheeks from her smile. The lingering aroma of freshly brewed coffee that clung to the stains on her sweater and her ridiculous dedication in drinking two jumbo cups almost every day.

What it could’ve been like to know her as the woman Tim had fallen for.  What was it like for them when their world was only each other?

After that day, Tim stopped sending his yearly Christmas cards. For three years, the last memory of him that I’d carry was the sound of him crying our upstairs bathroom. He’d look at us with these solum eyes and repeat, “I should’ve died first.”

After these 3 years, that opinion changed. The mobile home walls had begun collecting dust as a hobby to pass time. The lonesome black armchair sat beside its accompanying sofa who’s leather had begun chipping over time. A long plastic oxygen cord had slithered it’s way around Tim, encircling his facial structures.

With lung disease, bronchitis and lung cancer at 74- there wasn’t many breaths left. With one, he blew out his last candle. With another he asked for some hot dogs, saying he hadn’t eaten for a week because his lungs had “damned” him from walking. At three breaths- he’d tell us that he was wrong.

“I’m glad she died before me, I rather take the heartbreak than to imagine her take it. It was better this way.”

And the fourth was our goodbyes; our “II love you”’s, the “I’m gonna die” and our “-don’t say that” moments.

His last was one alone. One that might’ve that bellowed in his chest, refusing to be pushed out like a whirlpool in a bathtub that slushed against the sides. One that was slow, staggering and stumbling against itself.

Or, perhaps the last breath was one that reached out of his corpse and was pulled up, into the cloud’s where Larue’s waited. Where the wind would blow them around and they’d look like fox tails dancing, and intertwining themselves. Like two clouds of smoke on a January night.