The Cycle of Decease

Not all inheritances are gifts.
And usually they are the ones
When declining, is not a choice.

The woman
That once wore her wrinkles with no shame
That only, skirts, she’d wear
And never revealed her hair
That walked miles and never gasped for air

The woman
Who could never cook a decent meal
Who never hesitated to say how she feels
Who never possessed a luxury that was given
Who bore ten children

She, is now disappearing.
Her pride missing
Her memories fleeting
Her identity shifting

To a girl
Aging beyond her years
Lost in a world she no longer knows
Loosing control of a life that once was hers
Forced to live in fear

The last time my grandmother could remember
She was witness to her husband’s surrender
To the same decease that’s now her offender
She found comfort in his demise
Knowing he and his memories
Would, finally, reunite

Now she waits for her turn to die
My mother, will now be her witness
And she too risk being victim to this sickness

Not all inheritances are gifts.
And usually they are the ones
When declining, is not a choice.