No Reason to Get Up
It started as a Sunday thing. Sundays are allowed.
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"Bring it here."
She said it into the pillow, without opening her eyes, and it was not a request and had not been one for months. The light was already high. She had stopped setting anything.
"Say please."
"Bring it here, please."
He brought it there.
It started as a Sunday thing. Sundays are allowed.
Then it was Sundays and the odd Saturday. Then it was any morning he was home. Then there was a week in November where he could not remember watching her stand up before eleven. Neither could she. Nobody decides that. It is the kind of thing that gets decided about you while you are agreeing to small pleasant things one at a time.
"I'll get up in a minute."
"There's no rush."
There was no rush. He had made sure of that. He had moved the charger to the bedside, and then the good blanket. Then, in October, the second pillow that meant she could sit up without using her stomach muscles.
She had thanked him for the pillow. That is the one that stays with him.
"Is there more?"
"There's always more."
She held her hand out for it without sitting up any further.
"You're spoiling me."
"That's the idea, good eater."
"…Good."
She did not get up that day either.
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