leaving
Tomorrow we drive my brother to the airport in Orlando. I'm sad that he's leaving. Then, Thursday, I'll leave too. This trip is passing fast.
My grandmother is sick. She doesn't look like herself anymore. Her cheeks are hollow and her eyes are sunken into her head. No more plump and smiling, her skin just hangs on her frame. She sits in her adjustable chair, under a blanket, with an oxygen tube strung under her nose. She's like a bookend to my dad's father who went out in a similar fashion in '98. Mom's mom. Dad's dad. Confusing, I know.
My mom's dad, the one still alive, takes such good care of her. They were sweethearts when they were 16, they met at church when they were living in Richmond, Virginia and they've been together ever since. They bicker still and she rolls her eyes at him, but he'd do anything for her and when I watch them it makes me want to cry. He tends to her every need better than any nurse, gentle and tender. Tomorrow he will help her wash her hair. He cooks, he cleans. Despite his gun fetish and the holster on his hip he's the kindest man I know.
Hard to write about without sounding overly sentimental. They're two sweet, old people sort of stumbling into the sunset together. It's quite beautiful, really, and any tears are tears of a subdued sort of joy. All of life is lovely in it's own, sweet way.
My grandmother is sick. She doesn't look like herself anymore. Her cheeks are hollow and her eyes are sunken into her head. No more plump and smiling, her skin just hangs on her frame. She sits in her adjustable chair, under a blanket, with an oxygen tube strung under her nose. She's like a bookend to my dad's father who went out in a similar fashion in '98. Mom's mom. Dad's dad. Confusing, I know.
My mom's dad, the one still alive, takes such good care of her. They were sweethearts when they were 16, they met at church when they were living in Richmond, Virginia and they've been together ever since. They bicker still and she rolls her eyes at him, but he'd do anything for her and when I watch them it makes me want to cry. He tends to her every need better than any nurse, gentle and tender. Tomorrow he will help her wash her hair. He cooks, he cleans. Despite his gun fetish and the holster on his hip he's the kindest man I know.
Hard to write about without sounding overly sentimental. They're two sweet, old people sort of stumbling into the sunset together. It's quite beautiful, really, and any tears are tears of a subdued sort of joy. All of life is lovely in it's own, sweet way.
posted by reasonably prudent poet at 9:16 PM
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