Inside Goodbye
By Annette Camp
January 9, 2026
I am learning how quiet dying can be.
Not dramatic.
Not a single moment.
Just a slow unthreading
that happens while the TV murmurs
and the clock keeps its ordinary promises.
The nurse says declining,
as if it were a gentle slope,
as if it didn’t feel like standing still
while someone you love drifts farther away
without leaving the room.
Most days he is not entirely here.
His eyes follow things
I cannot see.
Yesterday he told me of hallucinations,
and murmurings I couldn't understand.
He barely drinks now,
but his hands still reach
for Sunny D, Gatorade, and
milk-chocolate Ensure.
He eats like one bite,
sometimes another later,
then nothing for a long while.
I offer him the foods that once meant pleasure.
Sushi.
Pizza.
Blueberry pancakes with sausage.
Sweet potatoes, pot pies, deviled eggs.
Baked potato with bacon bits.
I sit with him
doing the work no one prepares you for—
loving someone
while knowing there is no turning back,
only accompanying.
Death does not announce itself.
It waits in the corners of the room,
Polite. Patient.
It watches me watch him.
And this is the hardest part:
nothing is required of me
except to stay,
to feed him what he loves,
to hold the ordinary hours
while something enormous
moves silently closer.
I am not ready.
I am just here,
loving him in bites and sips,
learning how to stand
inside goodbye
before it is spoken.
