Soup, and it’s dripping down her chin and I wipe it as a mother would her baby—only I’m her baby, and where are her pills? Lined up neat by my father in a green tray, I find the ones for Lunch and she cannot swallow, and it’s one of those days. She’s staring at a robin pecking birdseed outside the kitchen window and her head is bobbing, eyes as blue as her sweater and her pants.
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Image by Kelly Sauer. (http://www.kellysauer.com/) Used with permission.