In the end life just ebbed away.

One day she told me she had forgotten how to turn on her computer. She couldn’t focus on the conversation, but she did say, “Kloe, what are you doing?” after I told her about an incident in my chaotic life. And she was right, of course.
Two days later when I saw her she was staring at a painting of a young boy sitting in a watermelon cart. And she asked for watermelon. It was one of the last things she ate.
The next day, she only looked out the window at the sky, not at me anymore, so used to being the center of her focus. How can I function without that adoration?
The next day, she was in her bed, and she didn’t open her eyes anymore. Her face was one I’d seen before. I held her hand and just told her I loved her. I know that she was showing me the way to die, at home and quietly, without fuss. I took the photos of her and her sister and my grandfather, all young and carefree, and arrayed them over her thin legs under the quilt. This is the way she wants to be remembered, because she was vain like I am.
And the next day she was gone.