I knew you, once.
As you thrash in your bed, fighting hard against the nurse and I, you scream with your desperate eyes. A wild stream of hate echoes from you with words I thought you didn’t know. You hate me; don’t worry, I know. I try to soothe the mind buried underneath what you are now. I know, I say. Please, I repeat. You are a shivering mass of blanket and skin and twisted auburn hair.
A wind rustles through the open window, past the curtains that rush away from it. The misty blue bedcover brushes my legs as you shift in your sleep. It is past midnight. Silence is a cloud that consumes the room that you often call a prison. I sit in the armchair beside your bed, quietly terrified I might compromise your peace. My eyes blink slowly in the darkness.
“Sylvia,” I whisper, knowing you might wake, “I can’t remember you.” (Sylvia from Hospice)
Seriously, The Antlers
