Speaking slowly, swiftly, she says.
And this is the answer.
Pay attention, my dear.
Not long from now, not far from here,
like many of your elderly friends,
aching with their struggles, you will
embark on the medical mystery tour
through a peninsula of loss.
When you enter at length the cave of quiet time,
among the rocks, the mossy walls, the families of bats,
so much depends upon chance in the form of the nurse
currently on call.
Hopefully, one of my granddaughters,
who will take your trembling hand
and lead you through its polished marble
labyrinths by the rhythms of your body's decline.
The drum taps, pacing the flute, down to the river
that flows through blackness.
Bangles agleam on her wrist.
Get in the boat, she will say, reaching out a hand to help.