The room was small, but three clocks dutifully marked each passing minute, minutes that didn't matter anymore, minutes that came too quickly, too slowly, too soon, too late. Every moment ought to hold promise. A moment is time enough for an apology, a hug, a goodbye, an I love you. As long as we have time, we have hope.

But sometimes time is extraneous, every second superfluous. For the woman whose hand I held, every tick was out of place, irrelevant, even. The timepieces--time itself--nothing now but an ambivalent anchor. And yet the clocks kept ticking, muted by the constant recycling cascade and intermittent p-fffft of the respirator.

When someone is near death, they breathe differently. The sound is like a rattling snore, but comes from the voice box, air passing back and forth as though the patient were breathing through a dissonant harmonica. The noise always unnerves the family. Is she in pain? Is she trying to talk? Is she aware?

I don't know. Maybe. Probably not.

What is she holding on for? We've all been in to see her. She needs to let go. What is she waiting for?

And this is the impossible question. What makes a person hold on to another minute when there is no hope? What might make me hold on? And do the minutes I have hold only empty promise? Do I cash in on the hope inherent in the time I have? What am I doing with the moments I've got?