breadbox nightstand, mom’s room across the narrow hallway.
she sleeps fitfully; working backwards to John coming at 10:30 to take her to the doctor. another ten or twenty minutes before I need to wake her so there’s time to wash, eat, dress.
everything one does in one’s body takes exponentially longer than it had pre-illness.
mind and thought and speech as well.
Parkinson’s is an evil evil evil motherfucker.
another place to consider whether or not in fact there might
about
before we buried my father's ashes, his wife told us that we might want to bury something along with the wooden box. people appeared to be considering this seriously.
hmm, I thought. hmm.
on the back of one of my business cards i wrote there might be cake.
on the one hand, this is ludicrous. i don’t even know how much my father liked cake. i don’t think he had a belief in an afterlife, and yet it seemed important, just in case. to send him off with a note of something hopeful. a good maybe.
now, months later, he's still dead and I still wonder.
[avatar image: Mike Monteiro]
there might be cake by Janet Isserlis is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
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