It's A Painful Sight.She picked up her cane, and made the enduring steps to the old wooden chairs outside her room.
The large colorful mug stood out in her hand. It clashed with the scene of the room and her skin.
Her once, healthy, brown skin.
Now dull, brown shaded with gray.
Everything in her house stayed the same.
Besides a few paint jobs between the not quite so long years she's been there,
even through all the parties, the eager feet of children, the quiet steps of adults,
the house remains the same.
Her house stays the same.
Though she deteriorates.
The house doesn't go with her.
It stands it's ground as it always been.
Though she hasn't left yet,
it's like she's almost gone.
From the weary croak in her voice,
to the sullen eyes, watering in their sockets.
She drank her tea.
She talked with me.
Every time we talk,
I wonder if it'll be the last.
I left her there.
I didn't know what to say.
I can talk to her about her condition,
I always, always ask her if she's okay.
But you see her, and when she says, "I'm doing alright... you know.."
You want to put your hand on her shoulder, and carefully whisper in her ear,
"No. You can't be. You're dying. You know it, and you've accepted it. Tell me how, how do you do it?"
She's so full of strength.
She's so tough.
But that doesn't mean she can't feel.
Imagine her body.
Cancer is one of those scary things in life that shows the inside right on the outside.
The wrinkles- no she was healthy! Where did it all come from?
All the weight she lost, her head, it's almost as if it might snap off of her neck,
every muscle, nearly gone,
she's almost just bones, and skin.
Pencil thin. Gray, dull skin.
Where's the brightness?
I can only see a sickening soul through her eyes.
And her smile.
Her smile is what's real on her.
It's still beautiful.
But she smiles, and you still see her,
as she once was,
able to get around her house without that cane.
Able to go to the hospital as a nurse and not an ICU patient.
Able to sleep at night even through constant knee pains.
Able to think about the next day, and not in hours.
I wonder about that too.
Every hour she makes it through.
Is she thinking, "My clock's ticking, my clock's ticking out,"
As the hour strikes in, is she thinking,
"It's my time to go.
And we all wait.
We think it too.
God when are you gonna take her?
Or will she really make it through?
It's hard to tell, because she's withering away.
And all you can hope for.
Is just for her to live, one more day.
If that's what she wishes.
But if she wants to go.
Then... that's what I want, too.
Because I can't imagine having your life running on a timer,
when you thought it was time to relax, and just live okay.
When your whole family, is doing okay.
When your own mother, fighting her own disease,
looks on at her sick daughter, with a smiling face and bright eyes,
and she MUST be thinking,
"How, will, my first born, be gone before me? How can she...?"
It's a deadly disease.
And it's killing her.
It's killing her.