“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.