Decomposition

Anne Cromwell’s hands are bony and thin. Her translucent, withered skin hangs loosely over her long fingers. Her wedding ring is too big these days. Her fingernails are jagged and yellow. Her white hair was in a tight perm, but now is frzzily unkempt. Due to her dentures, she talks in clicks. Her blue eyes are foggy with blindness. She wears only sweatpants and sweatshirts; she can’t always remember to button or zip. Her sweatpants and sweatshirts are usually stained from a Meal on Wheels or a Vanilla Slimfast. Anne can’t remember where she put the flour, which drawer the knives are in, how old her granddaughter is, if she already took a shower, when she last saw her son.

 

Anne used to have soft, elegant hands. Her bright blue eyes are what first attracted her husband, who had her wedding ring custom-made, and it looked perfect with her manicured fingernails. Her hair was once a warm brown, hanging curled around her shoulders. Before her husband died seventeen years ago, she cooked him split pea soup and pot roasts. Back then, she needed an hour to get ready to go anywhere. Her pantyhose had to be run-free, her skirt and blouse had to be pressed, her eyeliner and lipstick had to be just so.

 

When Anne’s son stops by for his fourth visit this week, she’s napping. He wanders quietly around the house, seeing the grimy toilet and the sink caked with toothpaste and the tub stained with rings. He opens the fridge and finds milk that spoiled five days ago. He can’t keep this up; he comes to clean the house at least once a week. As he sits at his mother’s sticky kitchen table, burying his face in his hands, he realizes he has to move her to an assisted living home.