A Prayer For More Time

I used to fear growing old because it meant death. Now, I know the real terror is much slower—the quiet, painful unspooling of a life. Every day, I watch my grandmother’s beautiful, structured face. This is the same face that used to bend down to tell me stories when I was small.

Today, those features just map out a quiet, gentle surrender.Her skin is falling like autumn leaves. Her teeth are gone now, and her hair sits like a heavy crown of white. Then comes the worst theft of all.

Sometimes, she looks straight at me and completely forgets who I am. She forgets I am the little girl she used to feed with her own two hands.She is fading into a silent place where none of us can follow her. She speaks less. She eats less. Just the other day, she whispered to me that she is simply waiting to go. I broke down. "What about me? How do I survive without you?" She just touched me and said, "One has to go, my love. I will be right here."

But how? Where exactly is “here” when the room sits entirely empty?Doctors offer zero hope for recovery. They simply blame it on the crime of being old. It feels so cruel. As if an entire lifetime of loving me is supposed to end in painful bed sores and the deep humiliation of needing help just to stand up. She tells us she thinks she is a burden. She doesn't understand that we don't want her to stop needing us. We just want her back.Every time she takes a tiny step forward, my heart sings with hope. The very next day, she is right back at zero. This constant emotional whiplash is tearing me apart inside.

-How do I plan for a morning where I wake up and she never utters my name again? How do I convince my soul that she has gone somewhere from which there is no return ticket?

I am begging the universe for more time. Yes, she is hurting and yes, it is selfish to ask her to stay. But love makes monsters out of us all. I am fiercely, terribly protective and greedy for her time. I am just not ready to let go.

I am writing these words down like a prayer, pinning them to the universe, hoping that the next time I read them, she is still here. Completely healthy, fine, and tightly holding my hand.

Time is a river that only moves forward, and I know I can't hold back the tide. Yet, every single second spent sitting beside her feels like a quiet rebellion against the inevitable. I will hoard these moments like gold. If love cannot stop the clock, let it stretch the minutes we have left. Please, just give us a little more time.