Unconvinced
Unconvinced
She wears
glasses
to hear
with her aides.
Ninety-nine years.
She’s worn.
Out.
“What?” she says. Her right eye squinting, hand cupping, head tilted, towards me, asking, again,
“...should I do?”
She can’t remember.
“What do I do?” she pleads, bringing her hands to her face, failing, she thinks, to remember, what to do,
Breathless.
Ly.
“Did you tell me to breathe?” she asks.
Hand on chest, saying a prayer or pledge or promise,
that has won,
out.
“Your body knows,” I whisper.
“How,” I add,
as she fails,
again.
“What?” she says.
Her lips pursed with pleats surrounding her mouth,
like a zipper.
“How’s that?” she asks.
Squinting,
again,
towards me,
head tilted.
“Why do I have to live so long?” she says, her aged voice cracking through the sighs,
fists pounding on thighs.
“What good do I do?” she asks.
“All my friends are gone,”
she splays,
her hands,
in supplication.
“Even my son.” She stops.
Ragged.
Yeah.
Worn.
Out.
Yeah.
Even her son.
“Do I have to eat?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say, unconvinced.
“I want to stay in my home,” she says.
“Yes,” I say, unconvinced.
“Why do I have to live so long?” she cries.
“Yes,” I say, unconvinced,
Holding vigil while she waits.
Didn’t the eskimos used to ride ice floes?
When the time came?
I’m looking for that balm for my own endings.
Yeah.