“Rice ball!” Her voice, though soft,
works its way through my haze.

“What?” I ask. “Rice ball,” she says petulantly.
“Sorry,” I say, as I envelop her small, cold hand in mine.

We walk almost every night. If she had her way,
it would be twice daily. Perhaps more.

Walking is good for me and she makes sure I go.
This means she must come with me to make sure.
“Good for your diabetes”, she says.

Cold weather makes her shiver.
Cool weather makes her shiver.
Even summer nights out walking necessitates
a long-sleeved shirt to cover her arms.

“Rice ball?” She asks.
I have been silent for longer than usual and my fingers
have loosened since the last time I rice-balled her hand.

I close my hand gently around her curled-up fist.
Squeeze once, so she knows I’m still with her.




Bonaventure Saptel