Sometimes she got impatient, angry.

The girl that came in was late, or different

today and didn’t know where things lived.

 

In there, she would say, next to the fridge.

She’d want to do it herself, but it took

five minutes just to stand up, get her balance.

 

Simple tasks became impossible;

pulling the top off the tea caddy,

carry a drink without spilling.

 

She’d rage at the ageing process,

wonder when it would end, wish for it.

Other days she just sat, slumped, lost to memory.

 

Her chair was mission control. Buttons

to raise and lower, tilt back all the way, became

bed when the late girl didn’t arrive,

 

or when she just couldn’t be bothered to move.

Remotes to hand for TV, radio,

cable box she never learned to master.

 

And regimented medication. Banks of pills.

Knew each one, what it was for. No placebos.

Morning, lunchtime, bedtime, day on day.

 

One wet, nothing day she left mission control,

bound for the final frontier.