last_gasp ovenbird The residents of this care home don’t get visitors often. They are the forgotten ones, left by middle aged children too busy with their own families and careers and Friday nights at swanky bars where the cocktails cost $19 each to bother holding the mottled hands of their nearly catatonic parents. I’m here to run a support group for lonely old women wrapped in pilling crocheted shawls. The building is as run down as the people in it: chipped paint, peeling wallpaper, floors that look dirty no matter how many times a mildewed mop is slapped onto the surface. A care aide ushers me to a hallway where I find three women propped up in chairs upholstered in vinyl. There is no room available to run my meeting, I’m told, so the hallway will have to do. I take a seat, rummage around in my briefcase, wonder what to say that might jump start a conversation. When I look up, one woman is already asleep, her head tipped back, her mouth hanging open. I’m wondering if I should wake her when I realize she’s not breathing. This isn’t an afternoon nap, it’s death, just sitting there in a shitty recliner, tongue lolling like a thirsty dog. I call for help and two nurses rush to the scene. “Sorry, sorry!” they say. “We meant to remove her before the meeting started, but things get busy you know.” One nurse grasps the corpse’s feet, the other grabs her under the arms and they lift her onto a dolly so they can roll her away. Her nightgown gets caught up in the process, lifting to reveal her pale body, legs covered in varicose veins, sagging underwear hanging from her hips. I think, there is no dignity in this place, and I wonder if I'm seeing my future. When my soul escapes from my gaping mouth, will there be anyone there to mourn? Or will I be wheeled to the crematorium by indifferent hands, my body ugly and spent, no one there to remember who I was under all that time ravaged flesh? 260112 what's it to you? who go blather from