Abby S.

She’s coming.

The faint hum of hard rubber wheels against tight-knit carpet,

The swish of her dress; satin against nylon stockings.

Esteé Lauder fills my nose,

And I wish for her tulip red lipstick to leave prints on my cheeks once again.

She approaches at a steady rate,

Pushing her four wheeled contraption closer and closer.

Maybe, this time, I can ride in it,

Maybe, this time, she’ll let me.

And maybe, when she gets out of here,

Out of the cold room with curtain walls and

Tile floors and

Nurses that don’t knock and

Medications on the table and

Broken hips and

Age,

We can “go for a nice walk together.”

Maybe.

But it’s not her.

The woman continues past me,

And I go back to wishing for an impossible outcome.