Sixty degrees and clear. She dies -morning hospice shift while I’m getting ready to visit her. Waxen in her white bed, arms bruised and quiet now, mouth wide in a gasp as if in scream, as if saying ah, no! Both eyes closed, turned down for my visit, denied all further light, sky or even ceiling. I touch her hand. It is cold. It’s only been two hours. At the threshold I see the elevator. I’m not ready to drop down that tunnel. I go back and kiss her forehead. Outside, the clear light types her life.