Mom, it’s a Wednesday afternoon and I am sitting in your wheelchair, bumped up against the couch, watching you sleep. A spring rain is speckling the cement of the back patio. Dozens of tulips that Dad planted for you are just starting to show their green bulbs, the fireplace is warm behind me, and the house, this house in which you raised six rowdy children, is quiet.
I am listening to you breathe, watching your eyelashes tremble, as you drift even deeper. Into sleep that will rest your body and brain, renew where possible And maybe, after you nap, I will be able to sit you up and feed you lunch, talk to you for a few minutes.
You don’t say much these days… your smiles are infrequent, your laughter less, and our conversations mostly one-way…
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