Night Soil
by Desiree Cooper

Now that I’m sixty years old, my bladder has become one more thing that requires constant attention. Sometimes twice a night I steal through our darkened house, past the bedroom of my aging mother who has Alzheimer’s, praying that I won’t rouse her as I make my way to the toilet. Once she opens her eyes, I know that my day of caregiving will begin.

One morning, I awoke late. The sun painted my room a brilliant gold. I felt rich, which is to say, rested. I wanted to languish in the downy covers, sip coffee, not talk to anyone. Instead, I popped out of bed, alarmed. Oversleeping usually meant that disaster awaited.

Read the full essay at this link: NIGHT SOIL