16 January 2013
Last Man on a Long Hall
Since my voice is not your voice and your voice is dialed way down, other voices they'll just have to do. After supper, they line us up down the hall like two batteries of siege mortars faced off against one another. Our wheelchairs locked in place, we wait while they go bleeding from room to room turning down our cool covers, creating perfect little people- sized pocket protectors. Then they start at one end or the other (tonight I get to go last), our dreams in plastic cups. Some ask, "Had enough?" meaning the water. My aide's from Haiti, almost as frail as I am. “Ready for bed?” she whispers. And though her voice is not your voice and it's really not a question, I bow.