The Sound of Leaving

The Sound of Leaving

By Annette Camp 

January 23, 2026

I rush to his bedside

His breathing arrives in pieces—

wet, uneven,

Each gurgle pulls at something in my chest,

as if my body recognizes

what my mind keeps refusing.

He tries to clear his throat,

again and again,

as though the words are caught just behind it,

panicking.

I lean closer,

not because I expect to understand,

but because being near feels like

the last useful thing I can do.

His eyes search my face

with a sharp, restless urgency.

They ask questions I can’t answer.

They hold fear,

and a need so raw it hums between us.

I tell him I’m going to get help,

get family, get hospice, get meds,

get whatever I can...

His mouth opens.

Nothing comes out.

The effort is visible—

his whole body seems to lean forward

toward speech that no longer belongs to it.

The silence afterward is loud,

heavy with everything unsaid.

His legs twitch,

arms shifting without permission,

small rebellions of muscle and nerve.

The movements linger,

as if his body hasn’t been told

what the ending is yet.

I feel the helplessness settle in my bones.

Love becomes 

standing guard over a moment

that cannot be fixed,

only held.

And so I hold it—

his gaze,

the sounds,

the trembling air between us—

knowing this is what remains

when words fall away

and all that’s left

is being present

as he drifts

toward a place

I cannot follow.