Abstract
The creaking door fails to arouse her.
We enter her dim bedroom browsed by silence,
An eerie invitation to the reaper.
I look at her, comfortable, at peace,
curled into her favorite fetal position in a white fleece.
The silence is suddenly interrupted.
In walks her better half, "She hasn't changed since the last time you saw her."
He smiles, inadvertently thanking us for coming.
He cherishes the slow dying process, clearly unnumbing.
I can't help notice the ancient family pictures on the grey aging wall.
All these memories now trapped in frames, all too small.
She is almost there, they all say.
I can hear myself ask, will I be her one day?
I place my stethoscope on her bony chest;
A chest once full of pride and kisses.
She grimaces, almost hisses,
Her nonverbal clues crystal clear.
I can't help feeling sorry,
Not sure if it is for her or for myself.
Through my bag, I fumble,
What am I looking for? I mumble.
She is comfortable at home, this I know,
Patiently waiting, the invitation through the door.