Bandaid

There’s a bandaid on my foot. I was standing in the doorway one moment, and just the next, the abhorrent strip of adhesive was plastered to my flesh. How did it get there? What does it want? You know, it’s peculiar, just yesterday there was one on my hand. If I didn’t know better, I’d say I’ve stumbled upon something quite strange. But of course, I haven’t. What oddity would it be for an old woman to have not one but three bandaids clinging to her aging skin?

This body used to protect me with ferocity. Now, she seems as tired as I am. My, my! How can it be? Another, just here, lurking. I haven’t moved from my perch and I’ve yet to shift my weight. I think they’re growing in strength. How are they accumulating? I don’t recall any tales about fairies equipped with first aid, nor a parallel from the biblical age.

It’s quiet, with the exception of the whistling wind and the audible ache of my swing. I rise to my feet. “Tell me, how long have you known?” No answer comes. Which is just as well, since I was already making my way into the house. I may no longer be accustomed to replies, but it never stopped me from initiating. I’m simply overflowing with inquiries. What am I to do with it all? It seems unlikely I have the time to figure it out. It seems unlikely I’ll be blessed with another full house.

I pause a few paces from the door. A reflection captures my attention, it’s a momentary diversion. I’m struck by how old I am. I’ve developed lines in places I didn’t know could fold. It takes willpower but I push through, envisioning what I discarded in my youth. The reflection stirs, settling on an impracticality before shifting once more. My eyes are soft, no longer as cold. They seem…full. I pray they grow fuller still.

What’s this? Did another one just materialize against my skin? The woman in the glass urges me to make haste. But what time do I have? What is there left to say? I could rant about bandaids. Tedious little things, always getting in the way. And to what end? Eliminating infection? Please. As if the government cares what happens to little old me. Still, they arise. Bandaids, bandaids!

It's quite the transition to go from living so vibrantly to the afterthought in someone else’s obituary. And now…do they come for me? These bandaids are consuming. I don’t have time to presume it’s for my betterment. Would they answer if I tried his house again? If I had but one breath, how would I use it? What can I give those who will stay?

The floor shifts and shutters beneath my feet. I move with rushed sincerity. The drawer resists me, and another bandaid is born from the struggle. Notepad in hand, I begin. I can feel my muscles strive to keep me upright. Is it enough? What if I never speak to him again? Time is of the essence. I should’ve started when I heard the calling. I reach for the phone, dialing the number I should’ve called years ago.

Ring.

I think I can feel them now, inching across my skin like worms.

Ring.

Why are they doing that? Is there nothing left to protect?

Ring.

Are they coming from me? No. This is insanity. I will not fall prey to hallucinations.

Ring.

I will not allow my fears to consume me. I blink as ink spills across a fading page. Is this it?

“Hello? Mom?”