“I am with you now as I write this”

I can feel her hand, holding the pen

I can see her, writing faster than you’d expect, but carefully

I know she chooses her words with care

projecting to a time when she will not be with me

when those words will be a comfort.

she is reaching purposely into a future where she is absent,

where only her careful words remain,

curled and perfect

on a letter chosen to match the tablecloth with which it was presented,

itself stitched, in that same way,

faster than you’d expect,

to match a set of china for which I have no table.

I wonder if she thought of a time when,

although present in body,

she would still not be with me.

Probably she did.

She worried, like I do. She worries, I should say.

She lives still, and talks, and is mostly herself.

But I can see it creeping in.

So can the doctors, now.

So can we all.

Dark moments, funny sometimes but insidious.

She offers me coffee half a dozen times,

saying with each “Oh, I haven’t offered you anything!

Are you thirsty?”

And I say the same thing each time

and try to hold on to the parts that are her,

still there but I can feel them going.

“I am with you now as I write this,”

she reaches forward.

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