Transfer Day

“But Anya says we can choose⁠—”

“Stop right there, Beryl,” I tell my darling daughter, patting her gnarled, bony knee. “Anya’s full of you-know-what.”

“But⁠—” she starts.

“But nothing, young lady,” I say. “Now tell me again, what are you going to do when you get in the pod?”

It’s hard to believe this dithering crone will be gone in three days.

“But I⁠—” Beryl starts.

“But, but, but. If you keep going on about buts, your butt’s gonna fall off,” I say. “Then where will you sit?”

You can’t argue with confident nonsense. Especially when you’ve got dementia.

“Okay,” she relents, rocking her chair. “I press the button.”

“Which button?” I prompt.

“Fuchsia. The fuchsia one,” she says.

“Fuchsia” sticks better than “pink.”

“And then?”

“Type III,” she recites. “Eye-eye-eye.”

“That’s right, darling,” I say, wiping spittle from her chin. “Fuchsia. Type III. Eye-eye-eye.”

After Beryl rocks herself to sleep, I pull her baby clothes out of storage. The only thing harder than the first week is the last.

Maybe I’m lucky. All I’ve got to do is drill colors and numbers. Anya’s mother has to wrangle a rogue senior with a self-determination complex.

I hold up a pilly onsie and frown. Biotic bodies are such a hassle.

I check Beryl’s still asleep then go into maintenance mode. As my circuitry idles, I wobble my metallic heart. Just a little.

Nicholas De Marino is a neurodivergent rhyparographer. More at foofaraw and nicholasdemarino.blogspot.com.