Rise from Ashes

The alarm clock at the bedside chatters very loudly, which makes this room suddenly drowned in noise, waking me up from this fitful, dreamless sleep that I could manage to steal.

My body is sore as I stretch to turn it off. I am tired; it has clung to me like a second skin. Another shift, another day, running the same long hours crisscrossing the city, scrounging about, barely making enough to keep the world from knocking at the door and swallowing us whole.

I turned toward the frail figure that had lain in a bed next to mine. Granny was breathing shallowly; every flutter of her chest a sobriety test, a stimulant that would remind me of how little more time we might spend together.

I wish I could give her more than this-minuscule apartment with peeling wallpaper and groaning floors-but for now, it's the best I can afford.

"Morning, Granny," I whispered, so as not to startle her. Her eyes flickered open, clouded with pain but smiled in a weak way.

"Morning, my Amelia," she greets, or rather, it's not so much speaking, for now her voice is a mere shadow of its previous strength. "You're up bright and early again."

I smiled back, swallowing the lump in my throat. An hour before, I had to go to work at the diner; they called me in for the breakfast shift.

Then I will squeeze into the grocery store, and then there's a cleaning job in the evening.

It is a litany of jobs, tumbling out of my mouth like some mantra I chant each morning to myself, to remind me of the crosses I carry and those I cannot afford to drop.

She tries to sit up. A harsh fit of coughing wrecks her body, makes her shake as she tries to breathe. I am immediately by her side, propping her up on pillows, and my heart clenches at how slight she's become.

"Here, take your medicine," I cajoled her, putting pills in her hand, pressing a glass of water against her lips. The pills go down with obvious difficulty.

Even the drinking of water is a grim ordeal. "I'm sorry, Amelia," she says after a second full of guilt.

"What do you have to suffer for? Shouldn't you be out there living your life, not stuck here taking care of an old woman?"

"Now, Granny, don't say such things," I said in a low tone as I tucked the stray strand of hair from her forehead. "You're all that I have left, and I'll do whatever it takes to make sure you're okay."

She turned to me with those sad, weary eyes and I knew she didn't believe me, not really. There was no future where things would ever be okay for her, and both of us knew that. But for her sake, I had to hold onto that hope.

I gave her a little peak on the forehead, promising that if the tips are good today, I would bring something special for dinner.

She nods, but again, still, this faraway glaze in her eyes is such that even at this point, she retreats back into that pain and cloud of tiredness.

It tears at me just that little bit more each day to see her. Thus, this woman who brought me up with such love and kindness, day by day, was slowly worn down into a semblance of herself.

I hurried down the early-morning streets to the diner. The walk itself is chilly as the cold nips my cheeks.

Dawn was just breaking, adding that splash of color over the gray that is the city.

Already, there was bustle, busyness, everybody with somewhere to go, something to do.

I wonder if any of this lot are fighting the same battles I am, or if they've got their own demons to fight? It is still rough working at that dinner.

The breakfast rush hit, and the men rid themselves of their breathing at my window counter as they waited for food.

I droop my head as I go around from table to table, refilling coffee and picking plates away, my mind a million miles away from there. Every hour passing, the more dollars in my pocket, and one more small step to the mountain of bills facing us on our kitchen table-never enough.

However much I work, whatever jobs I take, it's always the same. The debts greater and bills come higher, while Granny is getting sicker.

My feet are screaming by the end of the day from working at the grocery store, and my hands are going raw from the hundreds of boxes and bags working.

It flushes down into one indistinguishable monotony day in and day out. Time plays tricks on me; no matter how hard I work to try and stay ahead of it, I never will.

By the time I trudge home, holding the few groceries I could afford, it's nearly dark. My stomach growls in protest.

That reminds me I have not eaten since my break at the diner. But Granny needs this more than I do. I can wait.

I trudge back to the building that houses our apartment, and in so doing, a wave of exhaustion comes over me with such vehemence that it sees me stop, leaning against the wall, my breath coming out in short gasps.

This is not a new-old experience, as most often this kind of tiredness has visited me. It was weariness today and sank into my bones so that even to move was close to impossible.

I pull myself up along the steps, my body heavier with each step until I get to our door. I fill my head with a deep breath and try to push away the fear and despair that are fighting for dominance with the promise of overwhelming me. I have to be strong for her. I need to be.

"Granny?" I called as I walked inside. The apartment is dark and silent, a stark contrast to the noise and chaos of the world outside. It feels like a chokehold on my throat.

I drop the groceries on the counter and rush to her bedside, my heart pounding in my chest. She is still there.

Too still. Shallow. Irregular breathing. Cold panic wrapped around me as I reached for her hand, and reached a cold, clammy hand pressed against my touch.

"Granny?" My voice shakes as I gently nudge her, trying to wake her, but she doesn't respond.

"Please, Granny, don't do this," I pleaded with her, tears trickling down my cheeks, while I reached for the phone to call for an ambulance.

My hands were shaking so badly I could barely get the number out.