The first thing you said, when I leaned down to embrace you, was, "You smell good."

Smiling, you lifted a hand above your head and tucked it beneath your pillow, so that your bent arm looked like a wing.

Then you said, "I never knew dying was as hard as giving birth."

When you inhaled, it sounded like you were drawing oxygen up through deep water. Your exhalations were exhausted grunts, the kind of noise you'd make putting down a heavy object. I sat on a chair beside your bed and you shifted your position to face me, wincing as you moved.

You asked about my children. Your own had arrived earlier in the day, summoned by their father. They would take turns sleeping beside you through the night, but for now you and I were alone, two sisters through marriage, the 'out-laws' as we called ourselves.

"Was it like this for your mother?" you asked.

I nodded and you nodded in response, as though we were in agreement on an important but undisclosed issue.

I don't remember the last thing you said to me. It was something about coffee, I think, or raspberries—something about taste and pleasure. Then you closed your eyes. When I thought you had fallen asleep, I slipped my fingers under the hand that lay curled on the bedspread, like something you had already left behind. Your skin was cool and dry.

I turned to the window and looked out at the empty laundry line, which you had erected, years before, in view of the mountain. I watched the loose cords sway, first toward the barn, then toward the frozen garden, rocked by an inaudible wind.

Inside, the effort of your breathing filled the room.

I thought and then said aloud, in case you could hear me, "I know how hard you're working."

I could think of no way to help you, other than to keep hold of your hand as you labored.