tadkil

So my Mother had a stroke. The bleeding kind that marks the beginning of a grinding and painful end. Episode after episode will come now. Each incident stripping her of more and more of herself and more and more of her autonomy. The end game.

O Me! O Life!
BY WALT WHITMAN
Oh me! Oh life! of the questions of these recurring,
Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities filld with the foolish,
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the struggle ever renewd,
Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me,
Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me intertwined,
The question, O me! so sad, recurringWhat good amid these, O me, O life?

Answer.
That you are herethat life exists and identity,
That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.