It guts me sometimes how perfectly innocent children are, especially my own. Not that they’re more innocent than other children, I just spend far less time contemplating the emotional and intellectual maturity of other people’s kids. Mine have so much to learn, despite being two of the smartest children their age I’ve ever met (not that I hold any bias). They’re wide-eyed, open-minded and overwhelmingly receptive to absorbing any particle of new information that floats their way. But they are still so new.
Month: September 2018
He took her hand in his as she stepped into the street. It was warm, hot almost, and softer than she’d imagined. It distracted her for a moment and she stopped walking as she felt his palm with her thumb. He stared at her stoically as she looked down to see if it was real. She didn’t try to run, she didn’t yell for help, she didn’t fight. That’s the thing with this job – they never do.
“Is there anything…,” she cleared her throat and licked her lips. “Is there anything I can do?”
I’m so weak now. It surprised me every time I try to raise a glass or sit up in bed that I don’t have the luxury of independent movement anymore. That I need help doing the most simple tasks like holding a magazine and turning it’s pages. It’s these nurses jobs to help with me with things, but asking for the help never gets any less embarrassing. I’m a grown woman; I shouldn’t need someone to hold a sippy cup for me.
He brings the kids around to visit on Sunday afternoons. I told him long ago to stop, that I don’t want them remembering me like this, but he keeps bringing them. They’re old enough to know she’s sick, even that she is dying, but they don’t need to see what she’s become. A shadow of her old, boisterous self, skeletal and helpless. They should remember her full of life and vigor and joy, not like this. The man never did know how to take direction.