Rite of Reconciliation

Mother died this way:
Her eyes snapped open
unfocused, scanning,
finding no one. Then,
she passed.

Mother died this way:
Her labored breathing 
eased for a moment.
She smiled.
She passed.

Mother died this way:
Coma-tized with
narcotics, drowning 
lungs filling up.
She passed.

I wasn't with Mother.
I don't know. In another
room I talked quietly by phone 
to Mother's cousin,
re-entered to find Mom gone.

I suspect version three,
fear number one,
want number two.
They've entwined my thoughts
for years. Always will.