What Happens Now?

It was the most loaded question I ever heard from a skeleton with skin and bones, mascara, blush, eye shadow, and lipstick. The question spills out dribbles through Nana's lips, down her chin, slowly hanging there waiting for Mom's answer My mind wanders back to summer beach days in Cape Cod, MA when I found money in the sand and bought Nana ice cream from the treat truck. She loved me but later when I cut my foot on glass in the ocean, Nana told Mom I should have worn sand socks. Now she says “dont remember me like this” Three generations gather round the hospital bed, Nana heaving dry sobs from the brittle bones osteoporosis fashioned- skin stretches over, blood vessels surface her shins like crop circles Heaving dry sobs her daughter holds her, words would just fall flat like the spit on her chin. Sand caked to the blood of my foot. Nana carried me then like I want to carry her now away from the vascular monster, the cellulitis, the commode by her bed. I want to fill my bike pump with my own blood, pump it through her veins till my body sweats its weight in emotion I refuse. I'd pump her blood every where but then my phone beeps: one new text My life goes on through phone wires her life drips throw bag and tube.