earlier today, i saw a tiktok
it was talking about what people see
when they hear that **** harmonica.
i wanted to comment, to explain,
but a few words alone won't do it.
because what i hear,
is my mommy’s last baby,
standing at the foot of our bed,
waiting for her to wake up.
but then she’s there,
laying in the white bed.
tubes, monitors, a morphine drip that seemed to never end.
she was more skin and bones than she ever had been,
her hair had thinned, looking weak on her head,
but as she laid there, slipping into death,
i stood, waiting for her last breath.
she knew she couldn't hold on anymore.
and there i was, her last baby,
standing at the foot of her bed;
watching. always watching my mommy.
the nurses must've seen something on the monitor,
because they came in, quiet,
calm,
looking at me with so much pity.
they checked for breathing.
checked for a pulse.
“she’s gone,”
said one woman quietly,
as the other went to open a window.
and for a few more seconds after they left,
it was back to normal.
just my mommy and i alone in a room,
waiting for her to wake up.
her baby, standing at the foot of her deathbed,
on september seventh.
Apr 24
Apr 24, 2026 at 9:06 AM UTC
earlier today, i saw a tiktok
it was talking about what people see
when they hear that **** harmonica.
i wanted to comment, to explain,
but a few words alone won't do it.
because what i hear,
is my mommy’s last baby,
standing at the foot of our bed,
waiting for her to wake up.
but then she’s there,
laying in the white bed.
tubes, monitors, a morphine drip that seemed to never end.
she was more skin and bones than she ever had been,
her hair had thinned, looking weak on her head,
but as she laid there, slipping into death,
i stood, waiting for her last breath.
she knew she couldn't hold on anymore.
and there i was, her last baby,
standing at the foot of her bed;
watching. always watching my mommy.
the nurses must've seen something on the monitor,
because they came in, quiet,
calm,
looking at me with so much pity.
they checked for breathing.
checked for a pulse.
“she’s gone,”
said one woman quietly,
as the other went to open a window.
and for a few more seconds after they left,
it was back to normal.
just my mommy and i alone in a room,
waiting for her to wake up.
her baby, standing at the foot of her deathbed,
on september seventh.
