Day eighteen: the day before her birthday

On 23 July I spoke with my mother through the ward line, at the appointed time, as I do every day.

She was short of breath again. She repeated what she has been saying for three weeks now: that she has done nothing wrong, and that she wants to go home.

What else she told me, I am not writing down here. It is in the file. Dated. Complete.

Tomorrow she turns eighty-three.

This is day eighteen. I write down what happens, every day, because my mother cannot — and because a day will come when people ask how this was allowed to happen.

We are not done.