This evening while eating dinner Josette choked on some of her food.

She was wailing her arms, fighting for help, fighting for oxygen. Her lips started to turn a lightish blue.

We grabbed her, pumped out the lodged piece of pasta, we patted her back, and she let out a violent cough which ended up being her saving grace.

She proceeded to request a cup of coffee and she went to lay down on her LazyBoy.

But even in that chaos, the house became instanteously silent. A giant, lonely world. The energy shifted. For a moment, I felt what the world would be like when the day came for her to pass away and leave us for good. It was like a glimpse into our future lives. A preview that was so sharp.

I didn't like it, because I was swimming in sadness too immense for me to even organize or comprehend. In this story, which I know I will have to live out eventually, a part of me dies. Dies. Dies. Dies. And never comes back.