There is a woman at the old age home.
Her eyes glimmer of the history she’s witnessed in her long years here on earth.
Her wrinkles remind me of constellations, connected in a magnificent display of wisdom.
Her hands are always shaky. No matter how much I hold on to them, warming her skin against mine, it never fades.
She rolls her wheelchair to my table every morning, complaining about how her good pair of spectacles broke and how she can’t see much with the new ones.
She looks distraught. As though she was in the middle of a panic attack and terror coats her face.
Protected environments don’t always mean home.
I try to look into her eyes and nod along as she repeats the same words over and over again but she’s in a daze.
She suffers from memory loss. Most days she can’t recognize her own daughter but tries anyway.
Today, I gave her her eleventh new pair of glasses. Tomorrow morning, she’ll come to tell me how she can’t see anything.