Mary E. Moore

Flying Solo

He practices takeoffs.

Two nights in a row, he climbs out of bed,
over raised rails, makes it to a chair,
preferring not to face death flat on his back.

I stack pots and pans around his bed
a clatter alarm, to wake me in time
to prevent his falling down nearby stairs.

The next morning, after a quiet night,
he is once again sitting up in the chair,
aluminum barricade undisturbed.

When he qualified for hospice care,
we abandoned our common course,
plotted separate routes, learned new skills.

I engaged daytime home-health aides,
rearranged the master bedroom and bath
to best accommodate the care of one.

Renting a hospital bed, I had it installed
where my half of our conjoined twins
once stood, settled myself in the guestroom.

I practice landings.