The Last of Them

We pay little attention to them, these puffs of air that are part of the definition of living-we toss them away, disposable tissues.
But here and now, listening for each one, I count them all and know they will end soon. The oxygenator at the foot of the bed seems like a death machine, with its important wiring and its automatic shutoff, which is synched to a tombstone. On that tombstone both the date of birth and the date of death was carved a long time ago. The tombstone doesn't care about pills or walkers or Mom's Timex.
My Dad, mouth open in a rictus of his very last breath, still waits for the holy wafer that will never come. The makeup artist at the funeral home will have to give him the bad news.
My Mom died in her sleep, which I remember is what she wished for when we last discussed death. I was maybe ten, but she was world-wise and had all the good answers. She also died by the side of someone who loved her-all that I could ask.
They blew taps for Dad -both the Union and the military helped bury him. Mom had a bit less help, but bury her we did. I don't know what happened to her Timex, but I'm sure it's still ticking, even though she has been released from her vigil and, of course, time goes on without her.