Two Cups.

(Sensitive Content Warning - My story contains the following themes: dying, and 'end of life' care).

The whistle of Khia’s kettle had barely started before she lifted it from the base. She scanned the counter before her and, upon discovering a scattered line of ants, frowned. That's the second time this week I’ve left the window open overnight, she thought. Come on. Pull it together, Kay.

She closed the window.

Two cups, she thought. Just as she had every other morning. She poured the water into both cups—filling one to the top; the other, around half—placed a teabag in each, and turned to sit at the dining table.

Khia and her mother exchanged a glance. Her eyes drifted to the side, landing on the black and white photograph of her mother and her—nearly thirty years back now—ornately framed and hanging on the wall across from her. She’d almost forgotten it was there. Her eyes lingered; she looked at the photograph in a way she hadn’t for years—gazing at the striking, vivacious woman and the carefree child, hoisted upon her shoulders, with the gummy smile and beaming eyes. She looked upon that day fondly—Donna had taken her to a park while her father was off at work; they ran and played in the blazing sun, met three different dogs and—as if that day somehow wasn’t enough—finished the outing off with ice-cream before they headed home. That’s where the photo was taken, home. The driveway outside, specifically.

Her eyes fell upon her mother again. How had it happened so fast? A question she asked herself every morning. A wrinkle or two was one thing, the sprouting of a silvery-grey hair, here and there—these were to be expected, eventually; but nothing had prepared Khia for the onset of further stages. Joint pain, frailty, the devastating corrosion of memory—they’d come for her mother, hard and fast and unrelenting.

Before her sat the remnants of a beautiful woman—in body and mind both. She sat hunched over the table. Her hair, once a beaming gold that poured down the small of her back, now a wiry, knotted mass of grey.

With a warm smile, Khia passed the cup of tea to her mother, Donna, who received it trembling. She stared at her mother, silently; she could not stop—did not want to stop. She released a deep sigh and, despite knowing it’d be too hot at this moment, she sipped at her tea, just for something to do.

The early morning rays of sunlight fell through the gaps in the curtains. Steam appeared from both cups, dissipating as fast as it rose and leaving among them the tangy, fruity aroma of Hibiscus lingering in the air. For a long, still moment, they sat there in silence, listening to the creaks of the house breathing.

Donna opened her mouth. “Wha—”

Khia listened attentively.

“Bu—” Donna paused. “Mm. Mm…” She trailed off.

“Yes?” Khia asked into her silence. “You can do it, mum. Just take your time.” Donna raised her head, as if to try again. More empathetic than she’d like at times, Khia noted a flash of both confusion and concern in her mother’s eyes. She swallowed hard—the confusion was especially tough to see. She leant over the table and gently took her hand. “It’s okay,” she added. “We can always try again another time.”

Khia rubbed a gentle circle into her mother’s hand with her thumb once or twice and let it go. She took another sip of her tea and set that down too. She then stood, turned back to the counter, and put on some music—a playlist of Chopin’s 21 Nocturnes, Donna’s favourite. Her eyes found the recipe card—Donna’s handwriting—and she paused. She warned me, Khia thought. She warned me not to overdo it with the soup. But I had to. Even if the fourth bowl made me sick, I just had to. The Nocturnes filled the quiet kitchen.

The squeak of one of the hanging cupboards sounded as she opened it. Inside were four separate pill organisers—one for memory, one for pain, one for sleep, and one for her heart. She began by picking up each one and shaking it, listening for a particular sound. Then she moved to checking the bottom, inspecting the organisers. She opened them up, checked them, and eased her mind by closing them and giving each one another shake as she set them back down. Her hands moved through these organisers with the efficiency and manner of one who was without any real thought. Donepezil, Temazepam, Gabapentin, Digoxin—these were all labels that she had no need to read anymore. Adjacent to these organisers, and pinned to the inside of the cupboard door, was a schedule of Donna’s medication, including directions and dosages, cold in their language of instruction. Khia spared them a look—though she had no need for them, either.

She glanced back at her mother. Donna’s eyes were closed, her hands propped up on the table, touching it with fingertips only—as if playing the Nocturnes herself. She swayed left to right repeatedly and ever so slowly; absorbing the music, drinking it in. Look at her, Khia thought. She’s at peace, she loves it. Hell, at this point, she may even think she’s the one playing. It deeply pained her to think about the piano, now stored away in the garage, covered in blankets and gathering dust. Donna’s playing had gathered crowds, once—not dust. Whenever mother was behind a piano, people would flock to her. Khia could still picture her mother there; back straight, black ball gown flowing to the floor and puddling at her feet. Her eyes were rarely open when she performed—at her level, they didn’t need to be. And when her hands—those beautiful, sturdy hands—found the keys, the room would fall silent.

Khia cross-referenced the schedule on the cupboard door with Digoxin, the heart medication. 15th of April, she thought. It was meant to finish today. She looked inside Digoxin’s organiser, noting that this morning’s compartment—and every one before it—was entirely full.