Who Decides?

January 1, 2010  (I was 65)

         Who Decides?

I sit next to her wheel chair at lunch.

I feed her.  She eats everything.

She drinks juice milk water then coffee,

coffee with her cake.  I make sure

the pieces are small.  She looks at me.

She likes to hold my hand.

I stroke her cheek and her hair.

She looks at me as if she knows me.

A caretaker comes by, says, “Hello Rose.”

She looks at him and points at me.

“You have a visitor today, how nice.”

She looks at him and points at me,

“My father,” she says and looks at me.

The caretaker moves to the next table.

She looks at me, You look younger,” she says.

I smile at her, “So do you.  You look younger.”

I take her hand again.  I remember the coma.

I remember the pneumonia, the conference

regarding extreme measures.  My wishes

my instructions, her comfort, her quality of life.

Now she finishes her lunch and looks at me

puzzled.  Her forehead wrinkles in thought.

Her lips move soundlessly.  She looks at me

and squeezes my hand.  “Who decided?”

She glances around then looks at me,

“Who decides?”  Instead of answering

I squeeze her hand.  This Christmas

my family gives me things I need,

they are sure, a different car,

a computer with much more memory,

a subscription to a movie service.

I protest, I don’t need all this.

They say I deserve it.  I look at them

and wonder who decides?