DAY ONE
The trees are green. The leaves are small, curved and shaped like petals. Sunlight bounces from leaf to leaf, making the morning dew look like gold droplets sprinkled around the meadow. I won't describe the ground.
You already know what it looks like.
But I'll explain the feel. My fingers hover over the tops of the tall stalks, tingling and tickling. It's soft, like feathers and calm water. The tips of the stalks are fuzzy, with wisps of curled hair and small brambles of dust. They fall off as I walk by. The grass parts for me. They wave slightly in the wind as if to prove that they're free—and happy, for that matter.
I see the house. I know you're in it. I want to see you, want to talk to you.
I turn around and walk back through the meadow. Away.
DAY TWO
The trees are green. The leaves are small, curved and shaped like petals. Sunlight bounces from leaf to leaf, making the morning dew look like gold droplets sprinkled around the meadow. I won't describe the ground.
You already know what it looks like.
But I'll explain the feel. My fingers hover over the tops of the tall stalks, tingling and tickling. It's soft, like feathers and calm water. The tips of the stalks are fuzzy, with wisps of curled hair and small brambles of dust. They fall off as I walk by. The grass parts for me. They wave slightly in the wind as if to prove that they're free—and happy, for that matter.
I see the house. I know you're in it. I want to see you, want to talk to you. So I take a shaky breath and put one foot in front of the other until I reach your front door. It's wood. It has a circle window eye height, with the knocker under. The knocker's shaped like a lion, your favorite animal. But you already know that. Of course you do.
It's a happy day, I tell myself. You're awake. Your eyes are open. Finally. But if it's a happy day, why do the clouds have an inky shade deep in their depths? So maybe it's not a happy day.
DAY THREE
The trees are green. The leaves are small, curved and shaped like petals. Sunlight bounces from leaf to leaf, making the morning dew look like gold droplets sprinkled around the meadow. I won't describe the ground.
You already know what it looks like.
But I'll explain the feel. My fingers hover over the tops of the tall stalks, tingling and tickling. It's soft, like feathers and calm water. The tips of the stalks are fuzzy, with wisps of curled hair and small brambles of dust. They fall off as I walk by. The grass parts for me. They wave slightly in the wind as if to prove that they're free—and happy, for that matter.
I see the house. I know you're in it. I want to see you, want to talk to you. So I take a shaky breath and put one foot in front of the other until I reach your front door. It's wood. It has a circle window eye height, with the knocker under. The knocker's shaped like a lion, your favorite animal. But you already know that. Of course you do.
It's a happy day, I tell myself. You're awake. Your eyes are open. Finally. But if it's a happy day, why do the clouds have an inky shade deep in their depths? So maybe it's not a happy day.
I ignore the thought, and knock. Your grandchild—my cousin—opens the door. Her face breaks into a smile as she sees me. She's small, sturdily built. Her bark brown hair is tied in a loose bun behind her, and little beads of sweat run down her face. It's not because it's hot. It's not because she's working hard—though, to a certain extent, she is.
No. It's because she's in the same living quarters as a dying woman.
It's because she's taking care of a dying woman.
It's because her heart is breaking because of a dying woman.
DAY FOUR
The trees are green. The leaves are small, curved and shaped like petals. Sunlight bounces from leaf to leaf, making the morning dew look like gold droplets sprinkled around the meadow. I won't describe the ground.
You already know what it looks like.
But I'll explain the feel. My fingers hover over the tops of the tall stalks, tingling and tickling. It's soft, like feathers and calm water. The tips of the stalks are fuzzy, with wisps of curled hair and small brambles of dust. They fall off as I walk by. The grass parts for me. They wave slightly in the wind as if to prove that they're free—and happy, for that matter.
I see the house. I know you're in it. I want to see you, want to talk to you. So I take a shaky breath and put one foot in front of the other until I reach your front door. It's wood. It has a circle window eye height, with the knocker under. The knocker's shaped like a lion, your favorite animal. But you already know that. Of course you do.
It's a happy day, I tell myself. You're awake. Your eyes are open. Finally. But if it's a happy day, why do the clouds have an inky shade deep in their depths? So maybe it's not a happy day.
I ignore the thought, and knock. Your grandchild—my cousin—opens the door. Her face breaks into a smile as she sees me. She's small, sturdily built. Her bark brown hair is tied in a loose bun behind her, and little beads of sweat run down her face. It's not because it's hot. It's not because she's working hard—though, to a certain extent, she is.
No. It's because she's in the same living quarters as a dying woman.
It's because she's taking care of a dying woman.
It's because her heart is breaking because of a dying woman.
Earlier I said you already know what the ground of the meadow looks like. That was a lie. A partial lie. You don't truthfully know what the ground looks like. You can't possibly, being stuck in a bed all day. But you can imagine it, and you do.
Earlier I said today is a happy day. That was a lie. A partial lie. It's not truly a happy day. But it is.
My cousin invites me in. She doesn't ask if I want tea or coffee or water. She knows what I'm here for. She knows what all the visitors are here for, inside this house of slow death. I could tell her that I love her. I could tell her that I know what she's doing is hard, but I'm grateful for it. I could tell her that after our grandmother is gone, I will comfort her.
But of course I don't. Because she already knows that, and my throat is too choked up to get words out anyway. She leads me to the hallway. And then to the door.
The door's a dark wood, like the front door of your house. The doorknob is made of metal, painted gold. But after many years of use, the paint's chipping away, exposing the ugly grey under it.
I don't want to go in. I don't want to turn the doorknob.
DAY FIVE
The trees are green. The leaves are small, curved and shaped like petals. Sunlight bounces from leaf to leaf, making the morning dew look like gold droplets sprinkled around the meadow. I won't describe the ground.
You already know what it looks like.
But I'll explain the feel. My fingers hover over the tops of the tall stalks, tingling and tickling. It's soft, like feathers and calm water. The tips of the stalks are fuzzy, with wisps of curled hair and small brambles of dust. They fall off as I walk by. The grass parts for me. They wave slightly in the wind as if to prove that they're free—and happy, for that matter.
I see the house. I know you're in it. I want to see you, want to talk to you. So I take a shaky breath and put one foot in front of the other until I reach your front door. It's wood. It has a circle window eye height, with the knocker under. The knocker's shaped like a lion, your favorite animal. But you already know that. Of course you do.
It's a happy day, I tell myself. You're awake. Your eyes are open. Finally. But if it's a happy day, why do the clouds have an inky shade deep in their depths? So maybe it's not a happy day.
I ignore the thought, and knock. Your grandchild—my cousin—opens the door. Her face breaks into a smile as she sees me. She's small, sturdily built. Her bark brown hair is tied in a loose bun behind her, and little beads of sweat run down her face. It's not because it's hot. It's not because she's working hard—though, to a certain extent, she is.
No. It's because she's in the same living quarters as a dying woman.
It's because she's taking care of a dying woman.
It's because her heart is breaking because of a dying woman.
Earlier I said you already know what the ground of the meadow looks like. That was a lie. A partial lie. You don't truthfully know what the ground looks like. You can't possibly, being stuck in a bed all day. But you can imagine it, and you do.
Earlier I said today is a happy day. That was a lie. A partial lie. It's not truly a happy day. But it is.
My cousin invites me in. She doesn't ask if I want tea or coffee or water. She knows what I'm here for. She knows what all the visitors are here for, inside this house of slow death. I could tell her that I love her. I could tell her that I know what she's doing is hard, but I'm grateful for it. I could tell her that after our grandmother is gone, I will comfort her.
But of course I don't. Because she already knows that, and my throat is too choked up to get words out anyway. She leads me to the hallway. And then to the door.
The door's a dark wood, like the front door of your house. The doorknob is made of metal, painted gold. But after many years of use, the paint's chipping away, exposing the ugly grey under it.
I don't want to go in. I don't want to turn the doorknob.
But I think of how many days it took me to get here, in front of my grandmother's door—your door. I think of how I chose this day, because it's my last day with you. I'm not going to waste it in not saying goodbye, even though there's an exactly identical tomorrow.
I turn the doorknob.
You're lying in the bed. Your eyes are open. Your skin is pale and your lips are grey. I can see your bones. Your skin is wrinkled. You don't move in the bed. You struggle to breath, it sounds like. I see the rising and falling of your chest under the blankets. I wonder how much longer you have left.
It's the body of a dying woman.
And I hate it.
But I force myself to walk next to your bed. I force myself to sit in the chair that's beside you, and I force myself to take your frail hand in mine. I squeeze it gently. I'm afraid I'll break your hand.
I see your chocolate brown eyes drift over to me. A spark of something—love? happiness? pain?—dances in your eyes. You're there with me for a moment. Before you're gone, I whisper.
"I love you."
The trees are green. The leaves are small, curved and shaped like petals. Sunlight bounces from leaf to leaf, making the morning dew look like gold droplets sprinkled around the meadow. I won't describe the ground.
You already know what it looks like.
But I'll explain the feel. My fingers hover over the tops of the tall stalks, tingling and tickling. It's soft, like feathers and calm water. The tips of the stalks are fuzzy, with wisps of curled hair and small brambles of dust. They fall off as I walk by. The grass parts for me. They wave slightly in the wind as if to prove that they're free—and happy, for that matter.
I see the house. I know you're in it. I want to see you, want to talk to you.
I turn around and walk back through the meadow. Away.
DAY TWO
The trees are green. The leaves are small, curved and shaped like petals. Sunlight bounces from leaf to leaf, making the morning dew look like gold droplets sprinkled around the meadow. I won't describe the ground.
You already know what it looks like.
But I'll explain the feel. My fingers hover over the tops of the tall stalks, tingling and tickling. It's soft, like feathers and calm water. The tips of the stalks are fuzzy, with wisps of curled hair and small brambles of dust. They fall off as I walk by. The grass parts for me. They wave slightly in the wind as if to prove that they're free—and happy, for that matter.
I see the house. I know you're in it. I want to see you, want to talk to you. So I take a shaky breath and put one foot in front of the other until I reach your front door. It's wood. It has a circle window eye height, with the knocker under. The knocker's shaped like a lion, your favorite animal. But you already know that. Of course you do.
It's a happy day, I tell myself. You're awake. Your eyes are open. Finally. But if it's a happy day, why do the clouds have an inky shade deep in their depths? So maybe it's not a happy day.
DAY THREE
The trees are green. The leaves are small, curved and shaped like petals. Sunlight bounces from leaf to leaf, making the morning dew look like gold droplets sprinkled around the meadow. I won't describe the ground.
You already know what it looks like.
But I'll explain the feel. My fingers hover over the tops of the tall stalks, tingling and tickling. It's soft, like feathers and calm water. The tips of the stalks are fuzzy, with wisps of curled hair and small brambles of dust. They fall off as I walk by. The grass parts for me. They wave slightly in the wind as if to prove that they're free—and happy, for that matter.
I see the house. I know you're in it. I want to see you, want to talk to you. So I take a shaky breath and put one foot in front of the other until I reach your front door. It's wood. It has a circle window eye height, with the knocker under. The knocker's shaped like a lion, your favorite animal. But you already know that. Of course you do.
It's a happy day, I tell myself. You're awake. Your eyes are open. Finally. But if it's a happy day, why do the clouds have an inky shade deep in their depths? So maybe it's not a happy day.
I ignore the thought, and knock. Your grandchild—my cousin—opens the door. Her face breaks into a smile as she sees me. She's small, sturdily built. Her bark brown hair is tied in a loose bun behind her, and little beads of sweat run down her face. It's not because it's hot. It's not because she's working hard—though, to a certain extent, she is.
No. It's because she's in the same living quarters as a dying woman.
It's because she's taking care of a dying woman.
It's because her heart is breaking because of a dying woman.
DAY FOUR
The trees are green. The leaves are small, curved and shaped like petals. Sunlight bounces from leaf to leaf, making the morning dew look like gold droplets sprinkled around the meadow. I won't describe the ground.
You already know what it looks like.
But I'll explain the feel. My fingers hover over the tops of the tall stalks, tingling and tickling. It's soft, like feathers and calm water. The tips of the stalks are fuzzy, with wisps of curled hair and small brambles of dust. They fall off as I walk by. The grass parts for me. They wave slightly in the wind as if to prove that they're free—and happy, for that matter.
I see the house. I know you're in it. I want to see you, want to talk to you. So I take a shaky breath and put one foot in front of the other until I reach your front door. It's wood. It has a circle window eye height, with the knocker under. The knocker's shaped like a lion, your favorite animal. But you already know that. Of course you do.
It's a happy day, I tell myself. You're awake. Your eyes are open. Finally. But if it's a happy day, why do the clouds have an inky shade deep in their depths? So maybe it's not a happy day.
I ignore the thought, and knock. Your grandchild—my cousin—opens the door. Her face breaks into a smile as she sees me. She's small, sturdily built. Her bark brown hair is tied in a loose bun behind her, and little beads of sweat run down her face. It's not because it's hot. It's not because she's working hard—though, to a certain extent, she is.
No. It's because she's in the same living quarters as a dying woman.
It's because she's taking care of a dying woman.
It's because her heart is breaking because of a dying woman.
Earlier I said you already know what the ground of the meadow looks like. That was a lie. A partial lie. You don't truthfully know what the ground looks like. You can't possibly, being stuck in a bed all day. But you can imagine it, and you do.
Earlier I said today is a happy day. That was a lie. A partial lie. It's not truly a happy day. But it is.
My cousin invites me in. She doesn't ask if I want tea or coffee or water. She knows what I'm here for. She knows what all the visitors are here for, inside this house of slow death. I could tell her that I love her. I could tell her that I know what she's doing is hard, but I'm grateful for it. I could tell her that after our grandmother is gone, I will comfort her.
But of course I don't. Because she already knows that, and my throat is too choked up to get words out anyway. She leads me to the hallway. And then to the door.
The door's a dark wood, like the front door of your house. The doorknob is made of metal, painted gold. But after many years of use, the paint's chipping away, exposing the ugly grey under it.
I don't want to go in. I don't want to turn the doorknob.
DAY FIVE
The trees are green. The leaves are small, curved and shaped like petals. Sunlight bounces from leaf to leaf, making the morning dew look like gold droplets sprinkled around the meadow. I won't describe the ground.
You already know what it looks like.
But I'll explain the feel. My fingers hover over the tops of the tall stalks, tingling and tickling. It's soft, like feathers and calm water. The tips of the stalks are fuzzy, with wisps of curled hair and small brambles of dust. They fall off as I walk by. The grass parts for me. They wave slightly in the wind as if to prove that they're free—and happy, for that matter.
I see the house. I know you're in it. I want to see you, want to talk to you. So I take a shaky breath and put one foot in front of the other until I reach your front door. It's wood. It has a circle window eye height, with the knocker under. The knocker's shaped like a lion, your favorite animal. But you already know that. Of course you do.
It's a happy day, I tell myself. You're awake. Your eyes are open. Finally. But if it's a happy day, why do the clouds have an inky shade deep in their depths? So maybe it's not a happy day.
I ignore the thought, and knock. Your grandchild—my cousin—opens the door. Her face breaks into a smile as she sees me. She's small, sturdily built. Her bark brown hair is tied in a loose bun behind her, and little beads of sweat run down her face. It's not because it's hot. It's not because she's working hard—though, to a certain extent, she is.
No. It's because she's in the same living quarters as a dying woman.
It's because she's taking care of a dying woman.
It's because her heart is breaking because of a dying woman.
Earlier I said you already know what the ground of the meadow looks like. That was a lie. A partial lie. You don't truthfully know what the ground looks like. You can't possibly, being stuck in a bed all day. But you can imagine it, and you do.
Earlier I said today is a happy day. That was a lie. A partial lie. It's not truly a happy day. But it is.
My cousin invites me in. She doesn't ask if I want tea or coffee or water. She knows what I'm here for. She knows what all the visitors are here for, inside this house of slow death. I could tell her that I love her. I could tell her that I know what she's doing is hard, but I'm grateful for it. I could tell her that after our grandmother is gone, I will comfort her.
But of course I don't. Because she already knows that, and my throat is too choked up to get words out anyway. She leads me to the hallway. And then to the door.
The door's a dark wood, like the front door of your house. The doorknob is made of metal, painted gold. But after many years of use, the paint's chipping away, exposing the ugly grey under it.
I don't want to go in. I don't want to turn the doorknob.
But I think of how many days it took me to get here, in front of my grandmother's door—your door. I think of how I chose this day, because it's my last day with you. I'm not going to waste it in not saying goodbye, even though there's an exactly identical tomorrow.
I turn the doorknob.
You're lying in the bed. Your eyes are open. Your skin is pale and your lips are grey. I can see your bones. Your skin is wrinkled. You don't move in the bed. You struggle to breath, it sounds like. I see the rising and falling of your chest under the blankets. I wonder how much longer you have left.
It's the body of a dying woman.
And I hate it.
But I force myself to walk next to your bed. I force myself to sit in the chair that's beside you, and I force myself to take your frail hand in mine. I squeeze it gently. I'm afraid I'll break your hand.
I see your chocolate brown eyes drift over to me. A spark of something—love? happiness? pain?—dances in your eyes. You're there with me for a moment. Before you're gone, I whisper.
"I love you."
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