Clinging Terror

Recently, an old neighbor of mine died. She’d been close to a hundred, deaf, nearly blind, sleeping 20 hours a day. When awake, she would insist you sit in the chair next to her lounger, cling to your hand, afraid to lose you. Because deaf, she shouted her orders; because of anti-psychotics, she hallucinated a narrative that made sense to her. When I was rummaging through my purse, she shouted, “Grace, let me pay you for those hulihuli chicken tickets.” I ripped a few pages from my pocket journal and handed them to her. She gave me fifteen bucks.