Emily isn't her real name.
I introduced her to our medical student on Friday.
She is rake-thin,
with wizened skin
From almost a century of cigarettes,
She shuffles from room to room on a dusty walker,
Her mobility scooter
askew
In the corner of her room.
I've mentioned her before,
She of the parakeet
Coco.
Now deceased.
I said,
She used to have a bird, Coco, now dead.
That's a shame, said the student, although I am relieved
She continued, I'm terrified of birds.
And the conversation,
The moments in time that morning,
The stillness of the late winter air,
We discussed recent events of Emily's life.
Her recent falls
Her near-death first-wave Covid,
Her dizziness,
Aches and pains,
Struggle for breath.
She is a survivor,
A crenelated being who is built to last.
And I think,
Had she died,
two years ago,
As so many did,
This conversation would never have happened,
She would had moved into incinerator dust,
Only the memories of those who knew her
at the back of the minds,
Her story would have vanished
Another old woman
Would now be
Zimmering through the tiny bungalow,
And I,
What would I have?
Not those moments,
Not this.
It would have been an un-ocurred sadness,
I flicker in time and other things.
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