I SIT WITH MY BACK TO THE WALL, MY PILLOWS FLAT. MAE punched them and
made them full, but that was hours ago. I’m holding a picture of Leah in my hands. In it, she is small, before I knew she existed. The sun is beginning to fade outside the window, and I am marvelling at how I’ve been shaped and moulded by women, even though I was absent from them most of my life.
The pain in my legs prevents me from sitting by the fire, the one beside the tree trunk that I have long considered a friend. I’m tired of this bed, of the medications, of the loneliness that comes with sickness, knowing that the people I love, no matter how much they try, will never understand my solitude. Dying is something I have to do alone. Leah, a grown woman now, visits a couple of times a week. My sister Mae and older brother Ben care for me even when I don’t deserve it. My mother prays.
“Joe?” Mae opens the door a crack, her face framed by the door on one side and wall on the other.
“I’m awake.”
The door opens fully, and Mae walks in. There is something joyful in her eyes. Something I haven’t seen from anyone in quite some time.
“You look happy, Mae.” “It’s because I am.”
I try to sit up straighter. I want to be my full self for her, to show her that whatever is making her happy, makes me happy, too.
“Joe, there’s someone here to see us. And I think we might have some catching up to do.”
