The Madame

A short story from Jade’s work as a death midwife.

Her slight body is gray and weathered, like driftwood washed ashore and beaten down by the sun’s harsh glare. She lies, curled like a baby, under an heirloom blanket, stitched together by hands that loved her. She nears 90 now and is in her final days.

Her daughters, diamonds glittering under their mother’s chandelier, push their perfumed and manicured hands into mine as they shake on their way out the door. They are like two teens, giddy and giggling as they push into the dry Nashville night.

I take the chair beside their mother’s bed, crack open the book on her nightstand and begin to read to her still sleeping, still breathing body. For tonight, I am her watchman standing sentinel, while the caregivers throw back their shoulders and let their obligations slip off like a heavy cloak.
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*I’ve changed or omitted identifying details to protect the privacy of those I wrote about. We teach best through telling stories. Here is one of mine.

Photograph generated through AI.

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