Going, Going
written by: Ann-Sophie
“Thank you for Mr. Button.” I whisper against her skin-covered skull, right below the halo of white hair against the deflating pillow. Her hand in mine feels wooden, fingers stiff and gnarled like bramble branches in winter, and cold. Her spine is coiled, legs bent, hands up, as if to defend against an attack. Like she still has some spirit left inside her to fight. But she has no strength left. I don’t think she will ever be comfortable again. Outside, the sun is midway through her descent, it is not quite evening yet, but we are way past the afternoon. I wonder how long we’ll stay here. A strenuous, pained wheeze fights its way out of her lungs, catching my attention. Her eyes are open, pointed at the wall, yet I’m sure it’s a blessing to be blind to the cheerful wallpaper that can’t help but showcase it was made for places like this. I look at her again. Wrinkled skin, dry mouth, gnarled fingers, and blind eyes. I pity her, I do. The doctors say it could take hours or weeks. Weeks just like this. I feel sorry for her, but also, she was a bitch most of her life. Petty, mean, and unkind. I don’t know what to say, or feel. I want the sun to descend, and take her with her. I want to never end up like this. I want to leave. The silence feels peaceful, then awkward, then oppressive. I thank her again for the stuffed animal she laid in my crib on my first day on earth. The one that’s waiting for me at home. “Thank you for Mr. Button.”
- Going, Going - May 24, 2026
