The stuffy smell
like over ripe fruit clings to my senses.
I get a prickly feeling as I see wrinkled forms
connected to breathing tubes,
slouching in wheel chairs,
eyes glazed with age.
And you. My grandfather.
Still alive. Still breathing. Still talking.
But on a different medium.
The medium of trees with
a million rings.
Walking through the hot hallways.
The air filled with tired souls, slowing my steps.
After only ten minutes.
You’re tired.
You want to go sit down
and rest.
As you talk about something
we nod our heads at you and each other.
As if what you’re saying makes sense.
When it really doesn’t.