We live alone, trying to find comfort in this nursing home—
because we can’t live with our families, with our own children.

We haven’t had a real family in so long,
not one we could truly call ours.

The only ones who need us now are the others like us,
sitting in the hall, staring at us like we’re mirrors.

Now we have formed a chorus to sing some stupid song,
proving that we are not socially incapacitated.
A piano gasps its tinny chords, half-deaf and wheezing,
but we sing anyway. What else is left to do?

Soon, we’ll finish singing,
and the caregiver will lead us to the cafeteria
to drink stewed fruit drink.

We’ll keep living, keep holding ourselves together,
even if we’re lonely, abandoned, forgotten.

My mother loves me.
She watches me from the other side, happy as I sing.
After the performance, she’ll buy me a cup of ice cream.

I’m still alive. I still want to be loved.

My son was killed, and I was left with no one.

I hold sheet music in my hands, but I’m not singing—
just standing here on the side, keeping my friends company,
so they don’t feel hurt.

I think Kathy is an idiot.
Don’t know what to do about that.