It’s Christmas Eve day at the end of the century,

Anna and I are having the same conversation

for the fifth time in a row.

She always starts: Well,

I’m 99 years old ya know.

That’s quite impressive, I always reply

as if we’ve agreed on this script

and now we’re bent on rehearsing it—

she asks my name again

and reminisces hopping trains in North Dakota

chasing around with Charlie (We were just friends ya know)

following the script

while I disinfect and respond.

The smell of 99 years

droops about the room.

I wonder if she knows about the mess on the toilet

or does she forget it like she forgets my name

as soon as it leaves my mouth.

She chuckles at the fact that a MAN

is cleaning her room.

(I suppose you wash clothes too! (chuckles more)).

In the Home

life is defined by objects:

common objects—daily devotionals, Days of Our Lives, and doilies;

personal objects—for Anna, a stack of ten spiral-bound notebooks

filled with her handwritten genealogy

now foreign in the hands of the author.

She’s telling me about chasing around with Charlie (We

were like brother and sister) as I push my cleaning cart

into the hallway—

I want to die living,

not waiting.