Stay
By Ann Fisher
She wakes in the chaise lounge. The same chair she fell asleep in just a few moments ago, right beside me. Her book still propped like a hard-cover tent over her belly, she opens her eyes and jolts upright, as if startled from a dream. Her brown hair, only a bit messy from her sleep, still looks good. She has so few grey hairs despite her 85 years.
OH!” she exclaims, her eyes wide in surprise. “It’s you! You’re here. How wonderful!” and she smiles so broadly it pushes my fear into the far corners of the screen porch.
I’ve been here for over a week.
One short nap erases so much. The three days I stayed with her in Philadelphia. Our slow trips to the grocery store, where she re-bought items I knew were repeats of the ones in her cupboard at home. Cooking in the kitchen, her favorite chicken dinner simmering while we dance with our spatulas. That old fur coat, pulled from the attic, modeled with dips and twirls in front of the full-length mirror. The long drive to the cabin in the Poconos to watch the deer step lightly around the lake each dawn. Our walks in the woods, her frail hand clutching my forearm for support. These past days, sultry afternoon conversations flitting from one topic to another, mirroring the birds above us.
I gather her smile and replace our lost days with that moment she wakes and sees me. Wide eyed, wonderous surprise. I hold onto that. And only that. Tie back my fear and grief with her radiating joy.
THE END