The very long baseball game.

monica byrne


My parents in 2001.


The morning of the day Mom died, the sky was white, as if there was a cataract covering the eye of the world. Clare woke me up and said, Come downstairs, her breathing has changed.

Julie made pancakes, because we still needed food. Then we just sat in her room, listening to her breathe, draped over the furniture like clocks in a Dali painting.

Donald said, What is this like? And someone else said, It’s like being at a baseball game.

We said, yeah…how each catch of breath feels like a foul ball where we sit up and say, “This is it!” and then it’s not, and we settle back in our seats.

How we would leave to go get more food, and then come back to our seats. How we would leave to use the bathroom, then come back to our seats. And ask, which inning is it now? Because we didn’t know how many innings…

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