"I was crossing 34th street when..." she says before the liquid morphine wrestles her into sleep.

She is my mother. She is dying.

I check her pulse. It has slowed in frequency and strength but I can feel it all the same. I check my pulse. It races and beats with such force, I am certain my heart will explode.

Save the nurses who stop in from time to time, I am alone in this death watch.

I grab a cigarette from my purse and head outside. My eyes squint in the sun as it casts happy shadows, oblivious to the vigil I keep inside Room 9.

"How's your mother?" A nurses' aide has plopped down next to me on the well-worn bench. "Got a light?"

"About the same as yesterday," I say, lighting her cigarette. "She's hanging in there."

"It won't be long now, honey. I'm sorry."

I stub my half-smoked cigarette on the bottom of my shoe and head inside the nursing home.

She is sitting up in her bed, waiting for me. "Say, did I ever tell you about the time I was crossing 34th street when you let go of my hand and almost ran into a taxi?"

I smile. "Yes, I've heard that story a few times.

"The most handsome man I'd ever seen stopped you," she says. "I think he's your guardian angel. Or maybe mine. Anyway, if it weren't for him, you'd probably be dead."

Like you will be soon.

"You know," she says, "I could really go for some ice cream. Think you can find us some?"

"Sure, Mom." I kiss her before leaving for the kitchen, where I find two small cups of vanilla ice cream.

I return to Room 9, where my mother's head is resting on her pillow, her eyes closed again. I check her pulse.

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