Panel 2 of Pablo, “m’ama, non m’ama, m’ama (she loves me, she loves me not, she loves me). Watercolor and pen, by Ayoung Kim

José collapsed again last night.

One minute he’s whining with joy as I come up the stairs, holding the stuffed octopus in his mouth. The next, I’m taking a steaming hot shower, pull on white flannel pajamas. I’m talking to the lavender, I’m talking to the house. It’s beautiful, it’s perfect, everything. Isn’t it? Isn’t it?

—and next I see José splayed out in the middle of the family room, his head twisted at an awkward angle. I caught my breath—was he breathing?

As I knelt beside him and stroked his head, he did not move, did not lift his head, his lids remained half-closed. I stared at his face—his eyes were far away. Gone. There was a puddle of drool around his muzzle, a string of drool hanging from his lip as he lay frozen and catatonic and somewhere far, far away.

It’s inelegant, this death thing. This process. Why must it be like this? Why must it be that every other day my heart jumps out of my mouth, my body chilled and tight—everything tight. My neck, my lips, my eyes, my shoulders—tight with fright as I kneel down and coo—José, my baby José, where are you? Are you ok? Tell me, what can I do right now? Tell me, please, anything. What can I do besides this, this kneeling, this whispering, this holding the rattle in my chest ?

It’s inelegant, the way he must go through this process. Why can’t he just go peacefully, with a smile on his lips? Why must you show me the Face of Death that jerks and rocks, that stumbles and stares, that contorts and drools and the eyes shut down and go somewhere I can’t reach?

I know I’m whining, I know I’m complaining. What to do? When at any moment he could collapse again and appear like a rag doll tossed onto the hardwood floor ?

I’m holding the phone in the crook of my neck, walking through the house looking for José. He’s not on his bed, he’s not on my bed, where is he? Where has he gone to collapse/die/fly away?

I get into bed and lay on my side, watching my boy on the floor, watching his belly move up and down, up and down. Up and stutter. Heave. Down. There is no moon light, no star light, just the black night like a widow’s veil.

A voice in my head says, Get close to it.

The disease. The dying process. The drool.

I march out of bed and join José on the hardwood floor. I cover us up with a down comforter. I wrap my arm around him. He is frozen in an immovable stupor. I tell him a story, I fall asleep telling us both stories. At some point, he rolls over and leans against me, and I hold him tighter. He sighs and I feel his belly moving with breath.

I hold him and I hold death at the same time.

Get used to it. Get close to it.