nicolette Fudala

Oh, the Nerve.

I watched as the warmth drained from her toes, then her calves, her thighs, and her waist over 4 days.

Pallid. Ice to the air around my skin.

I could see the effect all the way through:

Myelin sheaths stopped bouncing with signals to the cerebellum; no talk forth nor back to the cerebral cortex as dainty membranes shrunk their coasts, leaving drier

dry, weary riverbeds of communication.

 

An abused and angry old machine

Dead like the body that lay in its hospital bed, paralyzed.

Soul

stuck in her face.

Sleeping.

 

It was mostly bitter, and a tinge sweet—

I already knew, mother.

 

So she.

And what came of it…

 

This,

and no regret.

Instead, relief.

 

Whose?

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