Last Seconds

 
You held your breath
in those last seconds.

It didn’t look intentional.
I believe you were holding on—
to the last seconds of life
with your kids,
praying there were seconds
more to give.

I pressed on your chest
as hard as I could,
hoping I could give you
seconds more.

Hoping CPR would save you—
or save me
because I wasn’t ready
for life
without my mom.

*

Time didn’t move
the way it was supposed to.
Seconds stretched wide,
like they wanted me to step inside them,
like if I moved carefully enough
I could rearrange the ending.

I wasn’t counting numbers.
I was watching your face,
searching for signs
only a daughter would believe
she could read.

A twitch.
A breath.
A miracle running late.

My hands followed training.
My heart begged for exceptions.
Surely love counted for something.
Surely being your daughter
should’ve earned me
more time.

I thought—
if I press harder,
if I don’t stop,
if I don’t look away,
this moment will get tired of me
and let you go.

I talked to you without sound.
Apologized for things
that suddenly felt too small.
Promised things
I didn’t yet know
how to keep.

I told you I’d be okay
even though I didn’t believe it.
Told you the kids would be okay.
Told you it was alright to rest—
then begged you
not to listen.

I wanted those last seconds
to split open.
To spill into minutes.
Into afternoons.
Into one more ordinary day
where nothing important happens
and everything stays.

*

Those last seconds replay in my mind
like a broken tape recorder—
never ending.

My thoughts beg for relief.
A break from the show.
A pause in this game of life
because tell me—
how is this fair?

Three days waiting for answers.
Begging for a light to turn on.
Just an ounce of hope.
Something to hold.

Now I move through life
carrying invisible weight.
Those last seconds
stitched into my breathing.
Into my hesitation before joy.
Into how goodbye
still feels like a threat.

I thought maybe,
just maybe,
there was more to give
in those last seconds.

***

(Featured image from Pexels)