At ten-thirty he sits at the edge of his bed

and swallows the last pills of the day,

then draws water from a straw

stuck in his favorite cup.

He places it on the night table, 

then pulls two tissues from a box,

folding them in neat triangles

and tucking them into his pajama

shirt pocket (always blue plaid).

He removes his glasses, folds them,

and places them next to the cup.

His rosary beads lie on the bed

like a cross in a pile of beans,

but he has placed them exactly

two inches below the left corner 

of his pillow, as he does every night.

You have to have a ritual

when you get old, he explains.  

Otherwise you lose your place,

become confused, unmoored,

adrift in the mystery of your own house.

He turns off the light, reclines 

on his right side, clutching the beads,

and begins with a prayer

modified from childhood

and covering all possibilities:

that he will wake again tomorrow

and begin his well-mapped routine

or not.

02/01/2009

Author's Note: First published in Thick with Conviction, October 2008 - editors' Best of Issue award.

Posted on 02/01/2009
Copyright © 2026 Bruce W Niedt