Caring

Waiting. I dread this pastime. Those who visited, no longer do so. Phone that rang, waits in silence. As do I. Doesn’t she care?

Curse to be aged. The loneliness. Hours shared with no one. Everyone busy.

I slump into the creases of a wheelchair. Nap often. Sometimes wake up to the sounding of a doorbell. See no one. Was I dreaming?

Someone leans over me placing an arm around my shoulders. “How are you, Mom?” she says. “It’s been a long time.”

“Indeed it has,” I would have replied. Instead, I turn my chin upwards. Our eyes meet.

She cares.