Allen started coughing.
“She couldn’t solve the problem of pain for her father, or for herself. Now it’s filling your lungs.”
Allen muttered, “Are we talking mom? Always in bed. Popping pills.”
“I’d like to invite you to see something.”
He saw a sequence of accidents. Jesus, the sheer number of them.
Finally, he overheard her talking in the shower – “Please let it be an accident.”
He saw her tiptoeing on the street, avoiding ice, only to topple sideways – heard this is it, saw her spirit rise, then overheard her thought, oh, someone cares, as she lay back down in her body.
The same guy in front of him walked up to her, and spoke, “When you’re ready, I’ll help you up.”
Then he moved on.
This time Allen saw that were no pills on the bedside table.
Suddenly he understood. All the physical pain was nothing compared to the hurt she carried in her heart.
The man was fading into brilliant light as he spoke, “She’s always praying for you to be free...”