KIOKOKIVESI

The Final Words

 

She lay on the little wooden square wobbly bed in a remote hospital in the middle of nowhere, her body gently sipping away water of life from the drip that towered above her, supported by a crooked hurriedly put up structure. Her breath and time were quickly fading away, her heart was also losing its beat at an alarming rate. But despite of all these signs, no emotion was registered on her young face that was wrinkly perhaps from the hardships that she had endured in her short fast life.

 

Her hands were cold and pale, her pupils were slowly turning brighter with each second and her feet stood out of the little piece of bedding that only managed to cover her body partially to her ankles.

Seated beside her bed on a tiny stool was her only son of about fifteen. His ruddy face buried in his moist hands perhaps in a bid to convince God that it wasn’t time yet. All through he was quiet, but occasionally he would lift his face up to stare around at the pale brown walls whose paint was peeling off, then shake his head and finally support it with his right hand while looking upon his mother. He had so many questions written all over his little face, questions that were most likely never going to be answered due to the circumstances.

 

Sensing her time was nigh, she began to speak, faintly, in low tones, lest the intruders overhead the final words, lest the slight energy left in her ran out before she could finish but more so that her son could move closer, so that she could enjoy her final moments. Her son got up, sat on her bed, and lay on her bosom for one last embrace. She spoke on the importance of having a golden heart, a helping hand, and the need to always show a kind gesture to the neighbor, the little kid, the stranger, but more so to one’s self, so that when his time also came, he wouldn’t stutter, he’d be sure that he’ll make it to the other side.

 

At this juncture, she paused. For her body to soak in a little more water, for her heart to recover the failing beats, and for her fading whisper to gather a little more momentum. She lay there, quietly, motionless, in deep thoughts maybe of the fun days she had shared with her son, her only possession, her world, which explained why she was finding it hard to leave him alone in these uncertain times.

A few moments later she resumed speaking, emphasizing that this world is not ours to keep, it’s a bridge that we’re passing through, more so like a game, you play your part and leave so that the next generation can take over from where you left. She couldn’t bear the thought of him ever giving up, ever being afraid to try, and not living his life to the fullest. 

And then from a distance, a radio could be heard playing “it is well, it is well, with my soul”, a song that coincidentally came at the right time. She began to tear, possibly because at this point she was confident through it all that although God knew that she had failed, He also knew that she had tried her best. And for a second there was complete silence in the small room but before long the silence was cut short by a hysterical buzz from the machine that was monitoring her heart… her time had run out.