By Michelle Garren Flye
There’s less of you today.
I watch you fade like print on paper left in the sun too long.
Don’t worry, Mama, you say. I’m all right.
I know it’s a lie, but we’re all fading.
Some lose little bits.
From serif to sans serif print.
Courier to Helvetica.
But you fade—you’re not bold anymore.
You’re not underlined.
And the ink is seeping away from you
Like blood spreading in a pool.
Are you still there? I whisper.
Even when every touch brings you pain,
I still have to touch.
It’s the only way to know.
When newsprint breaks down, it becomes transparent.
I can see through you.
There’s no print anymore.
Just a period at the end.