By Aigerim Bibol

Rise when the sunlight is just beginning to peek through the curtains / find him in the kitchen making tea, his shaky hands struggling with the kettle / shake out two pills from the small white bottle and hold them out like an offering (these will help, I promise) / tap your foot one, two, three times on the floor of the waiting room, shivering at the frigid chill in the air / chop vegetables with careful precision, the rhythmic sound of knife against cutting board soothing your troubled mind / coax him to eat when he turns away from the spoon (please, just a few more bites) / tell him stories to fill the silence, the afternoon sun casting long shadows over the room / remind him of your name (I’m your daughter) / tuck him into bed like he used to do for you when you were a child, brushing a kiss to his forehead / feel the days blur into one another, the relentless cycle like a journey without a map / watch the clock tick down with despair, wondering when the road will come to an end / feel the weight of the world press down on your chest, throat constricting and heart racing when it’s all too much and you can’t, you can’t- / pull yourself together (it’s going to be okay) / no one tells you how hard it really is, to grieve for the living / kneel at his bedside as though in worship, a prayer lost on your lips / stare at his frail body, wondering why he looks so small / hold his hand, gently kissing the paper-thin skin / watch as his cloudy gaze drifts to you, your eyes locking / watch as he smiles faintly, a glimmer of recognition / watch as he raises a trembling hand to caress your cheek / I love you.

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Aigerim Bibol is a high school junior from the DC area. She edits for Polyphony Lit Magazine, BreakBread Magazine, and more. Her work is featured in Iris Youth Magazine, SeaGlass Literary, and Moonbow Magazine, among others. In her free time, she loves reading, writing, and listening to music.