the promise

my mother said
with vigor. don't ever put
me in
one of those homes.
a place where they have
to feed me,
change me,
bathe me.
promise me none of you will
ever do that to me.
promise me.

we promised.

she spent the last three years
of her life
curled
in a ball.
sipping on a straw, being
spoon
fed baby food from
a jar.

she had bed sores.
her legs no longer moved,
stuck
from being unused.
she could no longer speak,
but would blink
her brown eyes.
tears welling up.

they brushed out her hair,
took her glasses.
her teeth.
her cheeks hollowed out.
her skin
smoothed like porcelain,
white as white can be.

she'd hold your hand though,
squeeze as best she
could your fingers,
as she listened to you
whisper words
into her ears, and read.