instead i fixed her hair
she cried. tears pooling in the wrinkles at the corner of her eyes; begging me to help her. sneak her out when the nurses turned their backs. feeling like she was falling, she clutched and clawed at the bed.
all of a sudden
like the paper thin skin of her hands, my grandmother’s eyes are almost transparent. i watch as they frantically dart around the room, desperate to focus and meet my gaze. they are pleading; begging me to understand a lifetime of tiny memories, of regrets, of little vignettes frozen in time.
exactly as you are.
happy 8th birthday hunter, your journal entry yesterday read, “tomorrow is my birthday. i feel taller already.” and this morning, sure enough, you were. before my very eyes, in what feels like a single breath, you became big. a certifiable kid. a person who every day needs me less. a boy with unlimited ideas and…