When my mother-in-law, Helen, was strong, before dementia took her ability to swallow, you’d never see her in bed all day. She was a fisherwoman; she could reel in a big catch. Grab the fish by the gills. She’d gut, filet, and fry it up in a pan with flour, paprika, and Crisco.

Now, the photos of these better times line the shelves next to the hospice bed where she spends her long, last days. I pass the hours brushing Helen’s silver hair and braiding it. Filing her nails. Putting lotion on her feet until they are slippery smooth. I read The Little Mermaid by Hans Christian Anderson aloud to her. I tell her she is a magical creature. Imagine her swimming out into the open sea.

“Tell her it’s okay to go,” my mom says on the phone. “It’s her time.”

But I don’t feel it’s my place to do that. 

My husband, Bradley, and his dad filter in from the living room to check on us. We sing to her, every song we know. Mostly Elvis, her favorite.  

Bradley nuzzles his face to his mother’s. “Boy, boy, boy,” she says to Bradley. It’s the only word she has left.

As I watch Bradley loving her and losing her, something shifts in me. I’ve never seen the bottom of the ocean, or what’s on the other side, but I know that the waves keep coming. In my head, a moonlit beach, a low tide kissing the shore.