orphans

It gets worse every time I see him. He has made it much longer that anyone ever expected. But it is hard to watch now. I sat with him today - he in his wheelchair, me on the couch. He could not even go to Thanksgiving dinner. He could not make it that far, so I brought it to him.

The legs that used to coach my basketball team are unable to walk a few feet. The hands that held the Jester and the Ballerina and me, on the days we were born, trembly and weak. The face that used to deliver the nightly news to California, tired and gray. The adventurous spirit, who once took a spontaneous six-hour road trip to Chicago with me, just because we'd never been, who carried my brother through Yellowstone Park - so he could see a real geyser, who raised a South American wildcat in our living room, is trapped inside this tiny apartment, this broken body.

But there is still the voice - the one that sang lullabyes and spun tall-tale bedtime stories. The voice is still there, spinning an almost-true-tale of trained toads for my own children . The eyes that always told me how proud they were, shining on the jester in the very same way. The smile that sneaks out whenever he's trying to get your goat - smiling at the Princess as he asks if she's ever tried kitten legs as an appetizer.

For so very long he was all we had. And now we return the favor - little brother and me.

His kidneys are only functioning at 15 percent. He will not take the dialysis treatment. Soon he will be back with mama. And little brother and I will be orphans. Even now, when I am supposed to be a grown-up, I do not like the sound of that word.