Please


I see her old and frail and sick. Barely able to articulate anything. Shaky. Disoriented. This is what it comes down to, after ninety years of living: being a child, but without the perks. Slowly disintegrating.

Seeing her feels like a gut punch. Every time. A gut punch of pain and guilt pangs.

I can’t imagine what must go through her mind. I can’t imagine how it feels. Or what my father feels.

God, please, please, please give her health. Please, please, please give both my parents the strength, both physical and mental, to help her as much as possible. Please, please, please.

Advertisements

Wishing


I found it incredulous that she believed in eyelash wishes.
Really? I asked her.

Her answer: Why not? It’s just a way to pray. An excuse, if you will.

That seemed to make sense. Back then, at least. Today, I just brushed off the eyelash that I saw on the back of my hand.

Didn’t I need to pray? More like, didn’t feel like it, the thankless human that I am.

All the more reason to pray, to ‘wish’, don’t you think? She says in my head.

I nod to myself. Yes. Yes, it is.