It’s in the beeswax candle
that burns
on the kitchen table
next to half empty cups of stale coffee.
It’s in the pure oxygen
that pumps
in and out of her weakened heart.
I can hear it in Judy Garland’s velvet voice
singing her to sleep
in the background.
I feel it in her goodbye grip.
I can see it in her relieved eyes,
her dropped jaw.