More like I remember Great Aunt Kitty to move.
She plays a lot with what is left of her hair.
Twirling strands around her fingers.
Brittle and frizzy.
They fall down along her neckline.
She brushes them away and pulls her bandana closer to her brow.
Premature age spots sprinkle her hands.
I wonder if I'll ever chase her to the front door or twirl her hair into a giant knotted mess again.
She was always plump.
Now she cannot accept my kisses because they are full of sickness.
I turn away from her worried that I might blow her over with my breath.
I pet her stomach.
It was emptied.
I remind her that I was pulled from that very place.
Sometimes when she touches my hair I dream of crawling back in.
I'm far past her nose night, my old marker of progress.
I was excited to surpass her.
Tower over her, though I'm not ready to let her lay in my lap.
I'm not ready.
My legs are not full enough.
Not pale enough, not stubby.
We'll lay next to each other instead and wait.
We should take a nap but I don't want to waste this time.
I know she's sleeping when she begins to coo like a newborn.
I've been told that I talk in my sleep.