These days creep away in slow motion. I feel they get the better of me sometimes.
So this is it. I'm trying to be in the moment. Which has forever proven itself to be difficult for me. It breeds too much intellectual planning and little result. I lay down for a nap next to Grama and the dog. I am so tired and wish to daydream along the edge of sleep. Like a walk on the beach. But that isn't where I am, I'm not on the beach. I'm in the bed I slept in as a child with my cousins. All four of us together, drawing straws to see who received the untimely fate of slumber on the edge of the bed, next to the closet we dredded. It brought us to tears, as it was full of bullfrogs and raccoons. They only came out at night.
I don't think I ever lost the draw, but I usually sacrificed, and took the edge.
Twenty years later I am lying in that same bed. Next to my Grama and her labored, curdled breathing. "I am here," my mind enters the present, and I take its hand along with my Grama's. And we rest for hours.
Upon wake, drowsy I stammer, "Grama... I dreamed I was in your orchard. We were all in your orchard. And there was a handsome man chopping wood. I didn't get to ask his name... But he was so handsome." She smiles and asks for water.
I don't know where this is headed. In some ways I do. Death is creeping. Before I fall into sleep I wonder if He is in the house. If the dog barks at Him. If He is kind and gentle. I look for Him as my eyes close. I am keeping watch.
I sit on my Grama's front porch and she rests inside, along with my mother and aunt. I am trying to move towards sleep. But lately, the laying down portion doesn't come so easily. I am in seven different worlds at once. Leaning on them all for support. And I don't know what I look like.
So let's stop thinking about all this for the night. Let's rest our eyes.
Give Grama her morphine at 2am.
Wake up at 8am.
Have a glass of milk.
Take some pills.
Get her dressed and bathed.
Read her the letters they are sending.
Feed her toast.
Walk to the river.
Read the Bible.
Say a prayer.
Do the laundry.
Empty the dishwasher.
Bake a pie.
Feed the Brothers.
Check the mail.
Take all of this, one day at a time.
Because that's all I've got.
That's all anyone has.