How does love change over the course of a long life? And this prose-poem, for now, needs to be in second person.
Sitting across from your mom at lunch you watch her struggle to bring a spoonful of chili to her mouth in an unsteady hand. Overfilled, much of it spills down her chin. You reach across the table and wipe her chin. You suggest she take smaller bites. She grins and picks up another impossibly full spoon of chili. Your conversations are now shards of rote; together, you pick up and hold the pieces. Eating takes a long time and you resent your own resentment. Trying not to require a coherent story that you share. You reach across the table and wipe her chin. You suggest she take a smaller bite. The chili redness gathers in the lines around her mouth. You reach across the table and wipe her chin. Distracted by a movement behind you, she stares over your left shoulder. You look into her eyes. They see beyond yours.