I am not alone

She rambles on about the past, and only pauses every few minutes to cough--a phlegm-filled and hideous sounding one. The stories she tell are ones that she's told me a thousand times before. They're about children she raised who were not her own, money that she never had, lives she saw extinguished well before their time... she's a well of information, but I'm too tired, too tired to listen. I want her to stop, to be still, so I can rest.

I know she won't be.

So she goes on, telling me of how her children have all buggered off and left her, and it's as if I'm not there for her, looking after her, day in, day out. Some days I wonder if she remembers who I am, or who she is, or even where she is. I'm too afraid to ask her, because I'm more afraid of the answer.

I'm afraid of growing old. I'm afraid of being bitter like her, of losing control of my mind and my bladder, to the point where I'd be dependent on another human like she is on me. It's something I don't want to ever face. Especially not alone.

Maybe if she wasn't so alone, she wouldn't be so bitter. Dear God above, I don't ever want to be that bitter.