by Phyllis Rittner
Five garbage bags and only two hours left to clear the room before they steam clean the stained carpet for the next resident. Ignoring the death paperwork on your bureau, I yank cheap sweaters off hangers, pull open drawers, stuff bags in rhythm with my breath – toss – save – don’t effing know. Your adult diapers, donated to hospice. Ten bags of Pepperidge Farm Montauk cookies, gifted to your aide. The stale air and your sweet sweat swirl around me as I sort through lopsided ceramic pottery, dusty birthday cards, books you forgot how to read.
One week ago I found you slumped in your wheelchair, blood oozing from your ankles. That’s when I lost it and screamed for the on-call nurse. As she bandaged you up, you begged for rest, to be with your mother and die – your words, in that haunting little girl voice which made me blast Tony Bennett on repeat. The next day you ate a full lunch, tickled the male nurse and slipped away in your sleep. And because I agreed to some stupid Jewish burial law, your body was carried off before I could forgive you.
A gracious staffer helps me drag the bags to the dumpster. I stuff a toy cat and teal blouse into my backpack along with your black tattered wallet. Inside, one mushy coral lipstick, three linty nickels and a slip of lined paper reminding you of your name and phone number. Underneath, in perfect cursive, my name and the single word, daughter.
One week ago I found you slumped in your wheelchair, blood oozing from your ankles. That’s when I lost it and screamed for the on-call nurse. As she bandaged you up, you begged for rest, to be with your mother and die – your words, in that haunting little girl voice which made me blast Tony Bennett on repeat. The next day you ate a full lunch, tickled the male nurse and slipped away in your sleep. And because I agreed to some stupid Jewish burial law, your body was carried off before I could forgive you.
A gracious staffer helps me drag the bags to the dumpster. I stuff a toy cat and teal blouse into my backpack along with your black tattered wallet. Inside, one mushy coral lipstick, three linty nickels and a slip of lined paper reminding you of your name and phone number. Underneath, in perfect cursive, my name and the single word, daughter.
Phyllis Rittner writes poetry, flash fiction and creative non-fiction. Her work can be found in Wrong Turn Lit, The Journal of Expressive Writing, Burnt Breakfast, Roi Faineant Press, Versification, Sparks of Calliope, Gyroscope Review and others. She is the winner of the Grub Street Free Press Fiction Contest and a member of The Charles River Writing Collective. She can be reached on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/phyllis.rittner
Emerge Literary Journal 