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“You bitch,” she snarled,
but her lips quivered.
Her legs faltered.
I whipped around to help her with
my arms held out.
I was wary:
My own lips quivered.
My own legs faltered.
She swung a heavy heating pad
at me—her only weapon—
but her arms gave out.
It fell to the floor.
Her eyes met mine—the same green,
but hers cold and tired.
She wanted to give up—
but she wanted to live—and
I couldn’t help her, and
I couldn’t help myself either.
My mother rushed in to calm
her own mother,
to assure me that it’s not my fault:
“Grandma is crazy.
She doesn’t remember who we are.
She doesn’t know what she is doing.”
Somehow that hurt worse.
- Shelby Denhof
