There are men here and I want them to finish up and go. I’m not done. Could you please leave me until I’m done? I need to cut myself away piece by piece until there is nothing left.
I wish the men would stop talking. I wish the men would stop crying. I wonder why the men are crying.
—
The warmth of a wet washcloth. The smear of ointment. The clean smell and gentle press of medicated gauze, the zip of white tape. The men are no longer crying. There is a woman now. She is not my mother.
—
I wish I could open my eyes.
I don’t want to open my eyes.
I hear the sound of crying again and now I recognize that it’s me, I am crying.
