Short and sweet…
You’ve agreed with each other, five years is long enough. Your voices tunnel through my ears into my bruised brain.
The doctor says, “If by some miracle your mother regains consciousness, she’ll be a vegetable.”
What sort? A carrot, cabbage, or potato? Fried, roasted, half-baked, perhaps? Indeed, you’ve decided to uproot me from this life and cast me into the earth like a shriveled pod.
Foolish you, discussing your inheritances while standing at my bedside.
When you leave, I’m going to perform a double miracle and you won’t see me for the dust, my discarded life-support tubes your constant reminder.