Poetry

Life Condensed {A Poem}

Elderly Hands (2)

I wrote her obituary
to the chorus of the babbling brook
played by the aquarium-like tank
sustaining her life.
The green cord attached,
her new best friend though
she says it makes her feel
like a dog on a leash.
She asks permission to go lie down
on her bed. I reply,
“Granny, you don’t need my permission.”
She rests. I restless.
She’s never wanted to go to bed at midday.
Every fifteen minutes I tiptoe in
to watch the rise and fall of her chest.
She’s planned her funeral.
I was procrastinating on the obituary
but now it seemed more pressing.
Together we read through it,
ninety-six years of her life
condensed to three paragraphs.
Her last request finished, I now fear
she may find the green leash
too tight and let it go.
I tiptoe in to watch
the rise and fall of her chest.
She rests. I restless.