C is for Caretaker

 I wouldn’t trade a single day we had together.

Folding up your clothes, placing them in cardboard boxes, tears well up in my eyes.

It’s just me in a small room on the first floor of the nursing home. I’m waiting for someone to say something incredibly stupid, how I can move on with my life now, how it’s just as well, because you were suffering so much toward the end.

It’s just as well you’re dead now. My life will be so much easier now that you’re gone.

I want someone to point this out to me, so I can start screaming at them. I want to start screaming at someone.

But, I can’t. There’s no one to yell at.

I’m all alone in the room now, and I’m almost done folding up your clothes, and then I need to find something else to do with my time.

One thought on “C is for Caretaker

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s