The nurse glanced at the clock and said, 'I'll stay.' Her shift ended twenty minutes ago.
I knew she had a son waiting for her at the crossing guard on Maple Street. She didn't mention him.
I sat in the plastic lawn chair I'd carried across the ferry. The hospital chairs were too upright for a long goodbye.
My mother's breathing slowed. The nurse held her wrist, counting.
Outside, I imagined the crossing guard folding her orange flag, going home. The ferry horn would blow in an hour.
The nurse stayed until my mother's chest stopped moving. Then she squeezed my shoulder and left.
I folded the plastic lawn chair and walked to the ferry. The deck was empty.
All the way home, I heard her say those two words. I keep hearing them now.