June 30, 2010 in M
Her baby-bird eyes are pleading. I smooth down her wispy hair. It sticks, sweaty to her scalp. She takes the pills from me, her fingers fumbling, arthritic knuckles knocking each other out of the way. I put my left hand behind her neck, supporting her head so she can let it fall back while I pour water over her thin cracked lips, blue with veins. Her tongue smacks against her lips, her bare gums. She tries to shift in her bed, and winces, again, as a bedsore breaks open. Her nightie slips off her shrunken shoulder and she grabs at it desperate for dignity. She laughs; a quick inhalation that shakes her whole body. She says it again: They shoot horses don’t they?
Comments are closed.