Still a Daughter

Aides in and out last night as you wrestled breaths—
now you have no breath, 
 
only one nurse at my shoulder 
as I sit by your bed.
 
Your pale hands still pretty, their slender fingers fixed—
 
then soapy dishwater at the kitchen sink, 
the cheerful yellow rubber gloves you loved to wear.
 
You could never convince me to wear them. 
Years of dishes. Years of trying.
 
Am I still a daughter? I lean toward you 
from my narrow wooden chair, force myself 
 
to touch your cheek—
have I ever watched you sleeping?  
 
Your mouth ajar, hollows darker
than when I left last night, 
 
I want to remember your skin.
 
I sit back. Light is leaving your body.
 
How long do I remain?