The Bankers Daughter

It’s not like you to be quiet for so long, I think, so I poke your bloated corpse with my pencil.  You let out a simpering, reassuring gurgle. That settles it, I guess you love me.

Some day I’ll be old enough to be a corpse of my own, but for now, I roll you down the hall and tuck you neatly into bed with me.  You lay there, so sweet, with your eyes closed.  I worry you will get cold so I put an extra blanket on.

I pretend to care, so I get up in the morning and make you coffee, which I bring to you. You haven’t woken up yet.  When I prop you up, your eyes flick open like a baby dolls.

All day you follow me around, like a black golden retriever, tethered to me like a quivering balloon that demands attention.  When I gently stroke your head, your hair starts falling out.  So I superglue it back on for you.

I need to go to the store and I decide to take you with me.  You hold my hand and help me push the cart, while your feet drag behind us, limp.  I buy you the body wash you want so you don’t start to stink.

When night comes, I shut the blinds.  I make dinner and I ask you what you want to eat.  You never have an opinion when it comes to these things, and you don’t really eat that much these days, either.

I’m never lonely these days for I’m never truly alone.  You are always doing something funny.  Today, you are swelling up and it’s my job to keep you from rupturing.

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