Across the wooden table, her elbows crooked
Her head cupped in one hand
We talk, of this and that, the past, the present.
Out of the blue she says
I hope he dies before me.
The words seem harsh, hard, cold
As if she no longer cares
I am speechless, have no idea how to fill the void.
In this uncomfortable pause we avoid each others eyes.
Then she says
If I die first,
They will put him in a home.
She says it without emotion
But she is so emotionally charged,
I weep on her behalf.
Truth is all too often
So hard to swallow.
Trudie Shannon