The Last Breath

By Peter Bowden


The room was still except for the faint rhythm of a clock, steady, unbothered by what was ending. Her chest rose once, then again, the motion smaller now, like the tide retreating after a long day against the shore. She felt the edges of things blur, the linen under her fingertips, the scent of rain drifting through the half-open window, the low murmur of a familiar voice trying not to tremble. She could hear it. Every word floated in the air like dust caught in sunlight.

In that thin space between heartbeat and stillness, she thought of the first breath she’d ever taken; how the world must have rushed in bright and loud and new. Now the air moved differently, slower, filled with memory. She wanted to thank it all, the taste of tea at dawn, the laughter that spilled down hallways, the hands that had once held hers tightly. She wanted to tell them she’d loved deeply, that it had been enough.

Then came the last breath, not a surrender, but a sigh that slipped free and joined the hush beyond. Outside, the wind turned the leaves, and rain began to fall harder, not as mourning but as renewal. And if anyone had been listening closely, they might have heard it, that quiet exhale carried into the night, whispering, I’m still here.


Comments

Anonymous said…
Have experienced it too often as I sat by and held the hands of loved ones. You captured it beautifully.
November 25, 2025 at 7:01 AM

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