Another Day

In the slither between dawn and day, she sat at the edge of the bed and yawned. Her puffy eyes were dark beneath and full of sleep. Giving them a thorough rub, she focussed through the window, blinking away the tiredness, yawning again, staring at nothing in particular, but thinking how dull the landscape was; out there and within.

Swaying her feet like a petulant teen, but those years were long gone, along with the freedom she pined for, she struggled to get motivated. She was always the same after waking. Today would be the same as yesterday, and the day before that; so on and so forth, just like the last eight months.

Tugging at a loose strand from the hem of her nightshirt, the one he liked the shine and sensation of, or used to, before it, her mother, had gotten too much for him, and he'd left, she searched for energy. Time would wake the house soon, dragging her—kicking with rebellion—into its sun-bleached mundanity. The kind of light which was much too bright for her. She'd wear sunglasses, but only two types of people, a wise man once told her, wore sunglasses indoors: the blind and the idiot. 

The loose strand she had played had snapped, now she anxiously toyed with her hair, just as she had as a child;  making ringlets over and over, humming a song from her childhood. How she pined for those memories. If only she could revisit such golden times...if only. How she pined, she pined, she pined. The song she learned from her mother, which she would now sing back to her, perched at her bedside like a nightingale. "Sing for me. Sing me that song," her mother would implore. "Mother," she grimaced then sighed, her shoulders sinking.

Reaching back and taking her phone from under her pillow, she switched off the alarm before it could scream. Half awake, she imagined what if, at the press of a button, she could engage peace? That inner kind of peace. Life without so much brain traffic would be much less deafening, nowhere near as demanding, unlike her mother. 

She was a test of patience, a trial sent from God no less, she was sure. It wasn't her mum's fault, of course, it wasn't. Dementia was a cruel disease, but still, it was no less tiring for her; physically and emotionally. Seeing her mum's hold onto reality diminish, with the spikes of lucidity she did have—like her hair—thinning every day, was taking a toll on her own health. When does love morph in to duty; when does duty shape into hate.

She'd delayed enough. Shaking away such treasonous thoughts, she rallied to move. The sun was peeking through the window, making her squint and look away. "Better move. Can't fight the inevitable," she huffed. Standing up then stretching, popping relief from stiff shoulders, she took a deep breath. One final stretch and she just about mustered enough willpower to get dressed. On cue, her mother called her name.