She is old, frail,
can’t string a sentence together.
She doesn’t recognise me.
I read her stories – she used to read them to me -,
about a gypsy girl who keeps saying “I don’t belong here”.
I feel guilty.
I hope my voice is comfort to her,
on some level,
while she’s in that strange room not understanding a thing.
Life is cruel.
I search for small things to be grateful for,
like the deep hearty red of the roses in my windowsill.
They feel like the softness of the inside of a lover’s lip
when I press my cheek to them each day,
slowly watching them die.
Each day another rose wilts and I press it,
trying to keep its youth and beauty,
its life, here.
I want them with me.
Alive. Alive. Alive.
I close my eyes.
Wanting to freeze life.