Before death

I listen carefully to my grandmother Alma’s breathing. I heard it so often when I slept with her in this room with twin beds. This time, her breath is labored, gasping for air, pausing longer and longer between breaths. In front of me, family photos bring together the living and the dead on the same wall. For Alma, death is a move. I imagine a place where my grandmother can live in the afterlife, so that I can learn to let her go.