And we had stories.
Our days were not always like this,
propped up, hooked up.
We were gifted and whole, and we laughed and sometimes cried;
and we had stories.
When minds go and bodies linger, the stories fade,
like looking through frosted glass.
Here and there images appear, disappear, and reappear,
And some patronize us, but it sounds like mocking;
and some treat us like the furniture or a paycheck,
but the better ones see past the babbling, wrinkled, meaningless motions
to the gifted ones,
the loved ones,
the ones who had stories.