Tired

       He is tired. So tired. He closes his eyes and sings along with the choir that has come to entertain the old people. It is near the end of his life. He can feel that. Death has entered through the back door. She waits for him swishing her skirts. A breeze dances by. It tickles his sunken cheekbones. Not quite yet.

     After, he will accept a cup of punch thickened with powder so he can drink it without choking too much. He will refuse the offer of a cookie. His taste has changed. Food he used to enjoy now not so much.

     The shakiness of confusion is evident in his quiet voice. He turns to me and tells me that someone here at the home has stolen his wallet. This is a claim that he makes often. "The boss lady has your wallet in a safe so other people can't steal it," I remind him. He mutters something about social security checks. I know he is thinking about getting a part-time job and his own apartment. But he can no longer do those things. His past enjoyment and independence are now fading memories.

     "It's time for you to go now," he says gently. And I know he is tired. I take my leave, unsure as always as to whether or not he will be alive in a few more days.

                                     ~ sapphoq on life ~