You walk back to your Grandmother's room. The air is thick with sickness. It smells old, like time passing quickly. In the center of the large room is your Grandmother, her silver hair curled around her face, wearing a baby blue nightgown. She clutches a purple spotted cloth. As the door creaks open more, the wrinkles around her mouth form a smile.
"Morel," she says wearily.
Morel is not your name. It is your mother's.
"Hello, Mama. Have you eaten today?" G-ma is the name you usually call her, but recently she's stopped responding to that title. Mama works better.
On your Grandmother's nightstand is her breakfast. You knew she wasn't going to eat the whole thing- only the crust of toast and some orange juice.
You say...