The television was on even when it was time to sleep. Especially when peace and quiet was the the flavor of the night.
A thin blanket covers the linoleum floor. The two of us share a blanket atop. She holds my hand. She touches my head. Personal space, grandma? She calls me baby. She just wants to be close. She would look at my face as if trying to remember me for all the times she would miss me.
She and I fall asleep. I conclude my visit. I move on. Time fills the gap. I forget about the times we shared.
I reach out for his hand as I fall asleep. I reach for his hands to caress and slot my hand inside his.
I look into his eyes. His face. Trying to savor every detail. Every textured surface. As if I am her. Old and forgotten, living on her own, away from her children and their children. The TV keeps her company when she is alone. Always alone. Too quiet.
I am not she. I am not old. I am not alone. I am not lonely.
I am me but I think of her often. Thoughts of her brings me joy and tears, all at once. I am not just a sum of my own life, but a collection of my ancestors even if I have no recollection of their lives.
I wonder, did I do enough? Was I too harsh? Was I kind? Was I around? Was I enough? Never enough. Always too much. Many regrets.
I reach for his hand. I imagine how she must have felt when she held mine in her wrinkly hands. To be able to hold the hand of someone you love is a privilege. A moment to be treasured and appreciated right now.