The Time Machine

My grandmother lived on one for years, feeding her, breathing her, pumping her blood with enough life to keep her white eyes open. There were downsides– like her infected tongue, for example, or her sunken mouth that no longer puckered around dentures. Her arms became receptacles and her stomach lining bled. She no longer cared if she wore florescent nail polish because she no longer knew she had nails. Within a year she was gone, but her heart kept on ticking and the years passed like so much silt through her feeding tube. We grew, yearned, we mourned, we continued. Still, she lay beside the machine. Lightbulbs died and dust settled on picture frames. Four years can pass slowly in a room of indifference. The time machine just hummed.

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