Ismael

The doors swing open Hospital disinfectant clogging your pores Flickering lights The endless shuffling of paper slippers One room is not empty: one room, on Valentine’s Day, and she has Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s. She’s gone with her motor skills She’s gone in the eyes In the memory cortex nervous center She’s choking on water She’s choking on air She’s choking in her sleep She’ll be dead by early tomorrow morning, when the sun comes up to tell a teenager she’s gone. Heimlich Maneuver. Don’t forget the Heimlich Maneuver. No last words. She’ll slip away, mosaic of the past, present, and future. The sun shines and the bees pollinate, and what can you do, at any age, but leave the hospital and choke down all of this, and never speak of it again: go to sleep, and remember how she went, and that’s that.