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She’s not recognizing faces. She’s not saying words. Her hand doesn’t squeeze mine back.
I’ve said bye multiple times now. I always tell her I’ll see her later.
As I leave the house, I ask that the house be blessed. My religion has always been scattered and my spirituality has hovered strongly above weak. But now, I find myself pulled higher and higher. And I’ve hardly the strength to pull myself up. The women pray around me and the men look at the floor while the children look away from each other, try to stay preoccupied with the dog.
I can only beg for comfort now.
Waiting is difficult. And even though I’ve never been a patient person, I would rather wait until my own old age crept into my bones then to be left without the option of waiting. I could sit next to the bed, keep the lights dim, keep the morphine levels high. I could read forever. I could listen. I could wait.
I’d wait. Let me wait.
