by Margaret A. Robinson
Toweling our soaked gray hair, stretching out on twin plastic lounge chairs, we sunbathe after our laps, eyes shut, close as sisters though we’re only friends, and in age, fifteen years apart. Warming and relaxing, after the cold water, I murmur, “My husband will never retire - he’s working himself to death.” With a sigh, Lil says, "And mine’s been in hospice for three weeks, but he won’t give up." We both open our eyes to look past the six-story apartment house, above the green tree tops, at the endless blue sky, stacked with mid-July thunderheads. Lil whispers, “He's getting bedsores, he can't swallow, I just want it over.” Pointing, I say, “A good hard rain’s on the way.”
Margaret A. Robinson can be reached here.