Grandma

Grandma is withering away, and she knows it. She cringes climbing out of bed each morning; when she can’t stand sitting, but standing is worse. She counts down the clock to the end of each day. She picks up the phone to distract herself from the drone of the ticking. Four funerals this year? The contact book is slimmer. She calls the only bra that fits her “Party Bra” to prop a smile onto her gaunt face, her body weeping from its bones.

It’s no surprise that Grandma doesn’t want to spend her time “being painful”. That among the entree of pills for breakfast, she wouldn’t mind throwing an anti-depressant into the mix. It’s just another pill.

But she is still Grandma. A woman satisfied with the simplicity of the status quo and the comfort of normalcy. It’s this aging that takes away what she knows as her most meager essentials. That is what is killing her. Her body demands a new normal. That she summed up so succinctly: “the most I can do is protect my world as best I can.” Because right now,

Grandma’s world is falling apart.

“Just don’t give up on me.”

“I won’t.”