Each day we talk on the phone.
She asks what I did yesterday
am doing today, will do tomorrow.
Then, forgetting, asks again.
The endless repeating details are torture.
She is 90.
She does not remember, it is not her fault.
Her sisters are gone, most of her friends.
She has no one left to talk to
nothing left to talk about
but me
every conversation, over and over
me.
I want my privacy back
I want my life back
but that is selfish, so I suck it back
and we talk about me, back to back.
Like an ant under a magnifying glass,
feeling the heat of the focused sun
that is how I feel
fair or unfair does not matter.
Her questions are love
and love always includes
the risk of being burned.
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