Grandma Manuel

My great grandma had a chair in her house.
She would sit in it for hours on end. Doing nothing, just staring, just thinking.
She loved that chair.
And every summer I visited, I would always stare back at her.
Wonder what she was thinking, where her mind was taking her.
I could tell she was happy, but could tell she tried to hide it.
She had to keep her stature. Her strength. You know that.
And as I grew, she grew, and went to a new home.
And everything reversed.

I always dreaded the day that I would go to see her wrinkled body deteriorating in bed.
I wanted her to be with her husband again, rather than listen to her corrupt mind ask when he was coming home.
He's gone Grandma, I would say, as I watched her mind come to reality just for that one second.
Sadness, despair, rejection. Tears.
She got over it in a matter of seconds.
Then would turn around and ask how the kid's were. She thought I was her son.
How many tricks can the mind play?
I never want to get old.
What torture it is to lose the love of your life and you mind.

The smooth strong leather chair that she had once cherished had been lost. As well as her husband. Her support.
Instead of staring at her children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren, she spend her days staring the cracks in the ceiling.
Just skin and bones on an itchy, government provided, mattress.
People should be rewarded for old age, not tortured.
And now as I look back, after her story was finished, I realize that she is happy once again.
She is probably up somewhere sitting in the clouds watching over the legacy she has grown.
I have to say I miss seeing her cry.
But I was glad to see her finally die.