The Work is Received

As I wake and feel the sun has not forgotten me, I rise and meditate, trepidate. I let the brightness cast shadows against the wall behind my bed as I reflect. Another day. Another chance. I take my leave from the bed and prepare a soothing balm. I apply it daily, morning, noon, and night, using the preserving solution I was taught to prepare, along with cleansers of aloe vera and coconut oil. I tend the flesh to keep it lean, to keep it fresh.

Time is factored in, of course. I never rush or hasten the daily application. From her toes to her head, I work the creams and ointments into the skin with steady, practiced care. My hands move swiftly and gently, with keen, deliberate awareness. Her responses are muted, as expected, but the work is received.

This is my duty, bound to the notion of permanence. For without her, I am little to nothing left—shards of a life once brimming with joy and meaning. In this constancy lies my practice of respect, long since earned.

Every few days or so, as necessary, I take the clippers and shorten and carefully round off her nails, with attention and precision, careful to avoid splits or damage to the cuticles.

The satisfying snap and even collection of the trimmings feels important.

While I work on her nails, my fingers gently trace the lines on her skin, earned from a life full of experience. Joy and pain. Love and hate. Glory and hardships.

I clean all the tools, subduing each blade of the clippers before setting them back in their place. Nothing is left to chance or carried forward as part of tomorrow’s jobs. Order and schedule matter. This I have learned through repetition, the importance emphasised over time. Small mistakes quietly corrected, without complaint or ceremony.

In the spaces between, I breathe a little freer and tend to my own needs. I consume a breakfast not devoid of pleasure, but focused on providing the nourishment and strength I require. Bottles of water are refrigerated to keep me hydrated, along with the several cups of tea I swallow gratefully throughout the day. I almost chastise myself every time, until I remember her encouragement to look after myself if I wished to look after her. It provides me with little peace, though.

That peace is dictated by the next. Though I do allow time to reflect on how the stale air never feels fully claustrophobic. Oddly, it is heartening and familiar.

As I wish her good night and ensure her comfort, the night draws in and my thoughts already shift to tomorrow. Dinner, a chance to breathe—though laboured with concern—and finally rest.

Again, I wake and note that the light has returned. Dust has gathered in the corners, a fine layer across most surfaces. As I reflect and meditate, I make a mental note to clean the surroundings. Her voice surfaces, distant now, reminding me that a clean home means a clean mind.

All that wisdom plays back. Though her responses are muted, her voice echoes, reverberates through me. A constancy. While washing my hands. While switching the fresh laundry from washer to dryer and starting the cycle again. While ensuring I have enough consumables, ordering anything to top up supplies.

As I begin the morning as usual, tending to her skin from her feet to her face, I spy her hearing aids. They too, like everything else, carry a skin of dust that dances in the glow of sunlight through the window. Her voice surfaces, and that stale scent lingers and mingles with the light fragrances of the laundered linen and the variety of lotions.

I know.