Dear mother’s body on her sunken bed. Her brown eyes - foggy and motionless. Her body - a cubist ghost of what she used to be.
It was all too late. Or too risky to have been otherwise.
She must have been afraid and hungry, curled up inside herself.
She must have been yelling a thousand screams and we had not heard a thing.
No tear had rolled upon her bole cheeks.
Except once, perhaps.
Or twice.
It was spring, after all.

They turned the mirrors around: you are not to look at yourself in a time like this.
You are not worthy to see the blemish on your face: your little face has ceased to be your worry.
You should not forget you are to die as well: your image is to be forgotten.

Sweat. A beating heart trying in vain to make up for one that stopped.