7

"ah," she said, trying to pick herself up using her walker. There was almost not enough energy left. Not enough muscle left to pick up her bag of bones and stand up and then slowly, inch by inch, make her way across the room. Accross my way, in front of the television I was watching. But somehow there was still will. I don't really know why. Maybe it was to make our lives that much more pathetic. That much more unhappy by her unhappiness. She was the type of person that you could wake up in the morning and find a five dollar bill on the ground and feel like a million dollars (if you've ever found a five dollar bill on the ground in the morning you know exactly what I mean.), only to see that look on her face, that blank stare, and then you want to dig a hole and bury yourself.
She read that book. The same book. I could remember her reading that book for the 10 years that I could remember knowing her. I guess her memory became so bad that she would read the same book over and over again, not realizing it. It just happened to be sitting next to her chair. Later when I went to see her she wouldn't realize that it was me. I was perpetually two years old. "Is that you" she'd say. "You have grown so much! Last time I saw you is when you were only about this big." Then piss, shit, crap inside her diaper.