She fell again this morning, trying to get out of bed to do something, or to make something: tea, perhaps, or a small meal. She’s fine, I’m told, in spite of her tumble. Her day nurse handles her well. She’s gotten so thin, and so quiet, and what she does say is lost now in her ever-thickening Ukranian accent, like she’s shedding every language she ever knew, along with the last bits of her strength and muscle tone. The last thing to go will be that urge to rise, that need to greet the day standing, even if the day is a stranger to you once again. I wake each morning and wonder if today the phone will ring telling us to come now, to come for the last time. I heave myself up earlier than I want to and remind myself that this too is a privilege of sorts, that the day will come when I’m the one being urged to lie back down. People I hope I recognize will be there, offering to get it for me whatever it is that’s got me so riled up, I have to get out of bed to find it, finish it, fix it, or clean it. I remember to mention it to the girls again, that we’re going to see Babci this weekend, and that Babci isn’t doing so well. They’re old enough to understand they won’t be able to hug her or talk to her for more than a moment. All they have to do is gaze into her eyes. She’ll want to get up and make them soup and watch them eat it, and they’ll need to thank her for that and tell her it was delicious.