i don’t feel so well
she said
her face is grey
her hair so greasy
as her eyes
turn inward
looking at what once was
where’s my husband
he died
she pisses blood
he died?
yes
i try to clean her up
but there’s a lot
and she can’t lay still
or won’t
i haven’t decided yet
you are butchering me
she says
sweat on my brow
trying to keep
her insides inside
i’m sorry
i say
and all she says is
she pisses blood
zus died yesterday
we say in her sleep
but the truth is
her lungs started
filling with fluid
and she needed
injections
and phone calls
with doctors
because life
is sometimes
messy that way
zus was almost
a century old
with very little hair
left on her head
but a lot of joy
in her eyes and
a certain clarity
of mind
the last time
i saw here
i bumped
a wheelchair
against her table
it made her
chuckle
zus means
sister in dutch
which she still was
but her last remaining
sibling lost
her mind
a long time ago
which means
zus will live on
as long as she does
and we will
eventually
stop reminding her
zus told us stories
about the traveling
she had done
in her time
the americas
and asia
and a lot of europe
too
time
it’s funny how
we think it’s ours
until we run out of it
we stand in her
little room
relics of the people
she lost are everywhere
there is a picture
of a black and white couple
in a rowing boat
on her wall
a younger version
of her and
what i assume
was her husband
there are souvenirs
from her travels
smiling faces
of the children
that came after her
zus lays
in bed
embalmed
her nails
painted red
and a fake blush
gracing her wrinkly
little face
i can’t believe
how alive she looks
i say
and
god they were
efficient
we look at her
in her best top
and i realise
my mind
never really
accepts the bodies
they leave behind
i see their
chests rise
long after
their hearts
have stopped
beating
shame we can’t open
her window
my workmate says
she would have loved
to hear the spring birds
sing
