TWO DEATHS by Constance Campana • Cleaver Magazine
What should I remember, what release? My mother’s hot hand in mine as she was dying. My dog’s heart stopping. I felt it. My arm under her belly, my cheek on her spine—two quick beats and that was all. But certainly not. I fell on her dark fur. My mother’s breathing was harsh; she seemed like someone else. I sat by her and listened. I knew she was dying. I knew she was not theres—my head hurting, my hand losing feeling. Don’t die now, I thought.