The wrinkles in her fingers
match the confused look
lingering in her eyes.
'Why am I here?'
'It's important for you
to eat,' I answer.
'I don't want to.'
I opt to give her something small
and warm -
soup with crackers -
hoping it will comfort her.
As the steam wafts
up her nose,
She crinkles her face,
as if she smelled
something unpleasant.
She looks up at me,
as if I am
the 'something unpleasant'
that she smelled.
We are locked in
an insatiable
stalemate.
And I am stuck.
She reluctantly
pours the liquid
in her mouth,
and it dribbles down her chin.
A physical,
non-verbal way
of saying 'no.'
I resist the urge
to spoon-feed her,
knowing that would
only heighten the feeling of
degradation she already
feels.
I wonder when that feeling
started.
Was it when her daughter
suggested she move here,
where she could be watched,
'You'll be safer this way.'
was probably the way she fooled herself
into feeling good about
what she was asking.
She could finally take that vacation
that she'd been waiting for.
Or was there no discussion,
only a look of understanding
and agreement
between a husband and a wife
who used to be more of a daughter?
Did she listen to the stories of
her mother
during the Depression?
Stories I'd never get to hear
and that probably would never pass
from her lips
again.
I hope she did.
I hope at one point,
because of her wife-who-used-to-be-more-of-a-daughter,
she felt like more of a person
than she does now.