The paramedic stepped up into the cabin and grabbed the handle of the heavy rear door.
He pulled it toward him, and the metal latches clicked into place with a heavy, final thud.
I watched the ambulance doors close as my mother was taken away.
The kitchen table was clear of the clutter that had piled up over the last three weeks.
I stood by the counter, warming a bottle of milk in a bowl of hot tap water.
Maya walked in from the hallway, her steps quiet on the wooden floorboards. She wore a thick grey sweater that hung loosely on her frame, but her posture was straight and easy.
“Is the bag packed?” she asked.
“Almost,” I said. “I put the extra diapers in the front pocket.”
She reached into the cabinet and pulled out the insulated container for the warm water. Her right hand was at her side, her fingers relaxed rather than pressed against her lower abdomen to nurse the pain of her incision.
