Today, I held my mother's hand and cried.

Knowing the next time she might hold my hand, it would be cold and attached to a lifeless body.

She could not see my tears, for her back was turned away, her fragile body motionless as she grips my hand softly.

I traced her rough, wrinkled, worn out fingers and closed my eyes.

I'm sorry, Mom, for self infliction is the way I'll die.