It’s hard to see that she has no hair now that she’s been fitted with the respiratory machine. The mask covers nearly all of her face. I can hear Luna’s breathing. The rhythmic sighs signify she is alive, but no longer able to breathe for herself. The white cell she resides in only contains a thin wooden wardrobe, her metal framed bed covered with a single cotton sheet, the half a dozen machines threading in and out of her body like a needle and thread and a small coffee table in the corner beside her bed, adorned with a small bouquet. In the corner of the room by the bay window, sits a small upholstered arm chair, once occupied daily by the worries of her mother but now sits empty, waiting for her return. Luna’s mouth was once a fountain of joy, spreading it to whoever occupied the small space around her, but now it is only used for breathing, waiting for her brain to return to it’s once conscious state. I’m grateful for the conversations I had with her before she went into this indefinite slumber. She spoke of her adventures in the house by the lake with her friends. Them playing mummies and daddies and not giving a care in the world. Not knowing that what was behind those walls could encase a body as fragile as hers, pulling it into an abyss of sickness. To the wider community, we all knew the small houses at the lake side were riddled with asbestos, but the children seemed oblivious to the harmful substance and since Luna’s admittance, the cottages have been bulldozed and the area fenced off. The asbestos was the cause of Luna’s cancer. The terminal Mesotholemia once only resided in her chest cavity but now attacked her innocent brain. I placed my hand on the cool, smokey glass that separated the silence of her room to the frantic panic that was always in motion within the corridors of the hospital. I reach into the pocket of my work pants and pull out a crumpled piece of notebook paper Luna had written on. She had g