The Right Time
I look at her vulnerable skin get out of the tub,
Towel around waist, faced with the mirror.
She isn’t what she used to be,
Wrinkles hanging from her face.
She has a history, a family, and yet-
Silence brews in the house.
Age is but a number, a number counting-
1, 2, 3 operations,
C section, Appendix,
Tumor.
And number 4,
Tumor. Again.
Maybe it’s her time? But that can’t be.
Not her, she was there for my birth,
Is it already time?
She seems calm, she already did this,
But when my hand touches her painted canvas,
Jolt. Smile. Comment about some unimportant affair.
I trace the paint of time on her back and hope to learn.
A bump.
“Grandma, what is this?”
Panic in the veins of her eyes.
I am no longer there, it is just her-
And the silence. And survival.
And all I can do is watch-
until it’s my turn.
