STITCHES

MIXED MEDIA BY JAXTON TAYLOR

I am “the light around the moon,” and I am “God is gracious.” I am

PROSE BY SOPHIE SHROYER

The fact that his disease is common brings me no comfort. His destruction began quickly and is ending agonizingly slow. He was frail to begin with, a skinny old man, but still with relentless determination to do work. He is little more than bones and confusion now.

Pieces of his life and his home have been placed here to comfort him, remind him. It’s evident though, that he will never be home again. His room will be easy to take down, scarce signs that life ever was there. His room is too quiet, the carpet too cream, walls too unscathed.

We visited his old office recently, and even though his body (his dying, old body) is still here, most of him is gone. His office is bright with the Florida sunlight, white papers covering his deep brown desk like snow on a log; frozen in time.

I never noticed it before, how in his own way he was always in motion. It’s only clear now that he is incapable of anything. His arms, which danced with me, taught me to drive a golf cart; his arms and hands that held mine as we crossed the street do little more now than shake and reach out for a life he cannot go back to.

The most heartbreaking part of it all, though, is when everyone reminds me how his heart loves me in a way it never could for anyone else. Me, who is not related to him by any blood, who is too cowardly to visit him often. Me. He loves me. He is at his brightest and sharpest with me, finding some sort of memory of life to cling to.

Knowing all this, knowing that in some way once he forgets me he is all gone, knowing that, I still cannot bear to witness him fading away. I can’t stand how slow his frail legs move, how frightened his eyes look when Grandma leaves his sight. I can’t stand his tidy room.

It all is too slow, it all is happening too fast. He is supposed to dance with me at my wedding. He promised. He swore.

NATE SPARKS