So many times had I seen patients on days such as these and wished I could dispel their air of unease, help them stretch their arms and not finger illness and death. Cardboard boxes askew, some empty, most full, lie on the bare floor of the home where she nested so long. Mama, it's late, we can't take it all. I hate saying the words. She nods yes at last, clutches a fallen tile from the kitchen wall, fast to her chest.
Shadows lengthen inside, hoverings from the past.
I don't have the spark to protest. On that lambent day with its honed ray of chill, I grew old as well, when Mama stopped rocking, still as a fallen bird with a broken wing. Her fluttering sigh is trapped in my mind, spilling out of my hoard of sleepless nights. I see her wave with one hand, then my sight is sapped, my eyes bored by the hot, taunting sun.