She once moved like a Montana river,
always flowing and never emptied of energy,
rocking babies in moonlight
with hands that never asked for rest.

The nights were never hers.
They belonged to fevered foreheads,
to cries in the dark,
to lullabies sung with cracked lips
and half-closed eyes.
Her dreams were stitched
between diaper changes and midnight prayers for teenagers,
while the world slept unaware.

And still—
when the sun rose like a stubborn child,
she always rose too.
Poured Cheerios into cereal bowls,
brushed mangled messes from hair,
searched for lost shoes, and misplaced gloves.
Her smile wore mascara smudges
and coffee stains,
but it was a lighthouse
to those who called her “Mom.”

Years spun past in dizzying days:
baseball fields, scraped knees,
birthday cakes she forgot to taste,
late-night homework, and whispered heartbreaks.
She gave and gave
and gave
as if giving became part of her breath.

And now,
in this softened hush
where curtains filter gentler light,
her body—
once fierce and frantic with love—
has slowed.

Her nursing home room is quiet.
Nurses and caregivers speak in reverent tones.
The clock ticks more softly now.

She sleeps through most of the day,
held by hospice and adult children’s hands,
her breath a quiet metronome,
the rhythm of a lifetime
finally catching up her.

Still, if you sit beside her,
you might hear
the echo of lullabies
in the rise and fall of her chest—
never quite silent,
never fully gone.