And Suddenly There is a Shift

It was a gray day:
Clouds drifting in and out
of each other.
The sunlight peeked through the masses
every once in awhile to let us all know
that it was still there.
I blink as a knock invades
the quiet chatter in the room,
Three doctors:
2 men
1 woman
walk in, smiling
their starched white coats
hang loosely around their waists.
I fake a smile and wave.
As soon as his eyes move onto the mechanical bed
My face droops back into my disconnected stare.
My eyes trace the wires
lolling around her bed,
twisting in and out of each other like snakes.
Her white sheets wrapped haphazardly
across the mattress.
The IV buzzes and a few droplets
of clear fluid fall into the plastic tube
that twirled in and out of the air,
leading down
down
down
to her hand, wrapped in gauze,
hiding the needle resting inside her vein
pumping the fluid slowly
into her resting body.
I run my eyes along her hand,
transparent skin resting atop weak muscles.
Her face, suddenly frail and small
stares up at the doctor
worry and confusion draped across her eyes.
The bed hums as it shifts the weight
distribution.
She holds her hands atop her stomach,
shaking, but only slightly.
She juts her jaw out and claims there are options,
pushing the tears back from her eyes,
looking sternly at the man who's unraveling her fate.
My eyes catch his,
and then I fall back to her,
then to the small table:
a half eaten bag of Fritos,
her address book,
several duly colored brochures --
"Coping with Cancer," among other catchy slogans.
I drift in and out of the conversation,
not yet saying a word
but thinking only how much I can't stand
to see this happen
right before me.
To stand back and watch the sands of time fall before my face
with no control
no decision
nothing
nothing
nothing but memories.
As anger intrudes my silent thoughts
a loud beep breaks my trance,
and I jump slightly and look for the source.
The male doctor excuses himself and shifts the weight in the room,
leaving. His white coat fluttering
with his quick steps.
I glance over at my mother,
her face pale,
and she seems as weak as my grandma
flailing against the hands of time slapping us in the faces.
The bed groans as she moves her feet, only a few inches.
She fiddles with her nails, perfectly rounded, even, healthy.
Gauze and tape trample her well aged hands.
I look down at my hands, like hers.
I have her hands,
her blood coursing through my veins, hidden
but only because of youth.
The doctor holds her hand and smiles,
and we thank the doctors,
and slip away again as the door slides shut
and their mumbled voices float further away.