Topics:bone nails, color, death, mothers, nails, paintings, scratching, wheelchairs
What if I learn that I’ll die
rather than later?
Will my trepidation be greater?
Will I find
before I lose my mind?
Will my days be spent
in a wheelchair,
scratching at my painted nails
like my mother,
that red is not my color
and never was?
I could fill a piece of paper
with names that I want to remember
With codes and passwords
that are supposed to protect me
With words that I can no longer spell
and stories I can no longer tell.
But why try to remember at all?
Just hang me on your wall.
Like a painting at auction
I am going, going, gone.
Permission to reprint granted to the American Society of Anesthesiologists by copyright author/owner.