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Careful what you wish for
I used to see you. Both of you.
My bedroom window. Your patio doors.
Blinds open at eight. Lunch at twelve thirty. Dinner at six. Blinds closed at eight.
I could set my watch by you.
I’d see you lounging in the garden on a summer’s day. Book and drink in hand.
How I envied you as I was rushing out to work.
Sometimes you’d be away for weeks at a time.
Maybe on a cruise. Maybe visiting relatives. Who knows.
How I longed for just a little of your time as I was hurrying out the door
to take care of my mother.
I never begrudged you your leisure time in your later years but oh how
I wished I was you.
Now I see you. Both of you.
My bedroom window. Your patio doors.
Blinds opening and closing at no particular times.
Irregular meals, slumped over the dining table.
Nurses and carers brushing past parked wheelchair and walker.
You look bent and frail. He looks out of place washing the dishes.
Maybe a stroke. Maybe a hip replacement. Who knows.
I’m sorry. Guilt pervades. I feel lucky.
I shall now always be careful what I wish for.
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