I sit on the bed waiting for Noni to dress me. My medium-focus glasses don’t give me a clear view of my feet, but I know they are purple and swollen.
I just turned 97. I don’t know why I am still here. I never took especially good care of myself, never had any particular joie de vivre. I simply wake up every morning, still alive.
I can no longer do many of the things I once took for granted. Dressing and feeding myself and all the rest.
Once I scorned those who had faith in God. Now I envy them.