Nothing exists except this

Femme aux Bras Croisés by Pablo Picasso

“Sorrow makes us all children again – destroys all differences of intellect.  The wisest know nothing.”  ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

Nothing exists anymore for me outside of my mother’s hospital bed. The horizons of my world have shrunk to this small space and a longing to be with her all the time. It is so precious, almost unbearably so, to still be able to reach out and hold her hand, stroke her face, look into her eyes, knowing that soon I won’t be able to do this anymore. I am trying to imprint her deep in my memory while I still can. As each day passes, the realization grows that our time with her is diminishing – the days seem endless and at the same time too short. That the day will come soon that she will no longer be in our world is something that is still too terrible to bear.