the last sound

in birth, they always ask—
what were the first words?
was it “mama,”
soft and round like a moon?
or “no,”
sharp and sudden,
like the first breath outside the womb?

we wrap those words in gold,
store them in memory boxes
next to locks of hair
and faded hospital bracelets.

but in death, we ask—
what were their last words?
did they whisper forgiveness,
or mutter something mundane,
like turn off the stove?

we rarely ask—
what were the last words they heard?

maybe it was the static of a tv in another room,
or the hum of a fluorescent light overhead.
maybe it was someone crying in the hallway,
or maybe—just maybe—
it was something meant for them.

did they hear
“you can make it,”
clenched between teeth,
a desperate offering against time?
or
“you may rest now,”
a soft surrender,
arms lowered,
war over.

it matters, doesn’t it?
not just what we say when someone leaves,
but what they take with them.

because some people die in silence.
and some die with a chorus around them—
voices weaving blankets over their fading bodies.

stay with me.
don’t go yet.
we love you.

words that are heavy,
words that anchor
or set free.

what if our final moments are echoes,
and the words we last hear
become the ones we carry into whatever comes next?

perhaps heaven sounds like
a mother’s voice saying, you’re safe now.
or perhaps it’s just the sound of your own name,
spoken by someone who meant it
every time they said it.

i wonder if silence ever feels like enough.
or if it aches,
like unfinished sentences
left floating in sterile rooms.

there is a sound to death,
not always loud.
sometimes it’s the rustle
of a hand slipping from yours.
sometimes it’s a sigh.

but i hope—
when it’s my turn—
i don’t hear panic,
or machines,
or footsteps leaving the room.

i hope i hear love.
something simple.
something final.
something like you can rest now,
or maybe just i’m here.

because in the end,
it’s not just what we say.
it’s what they take with them.
and maybe
that’s what lives on.