the beautiful gears of dying
Sandra Kasturi
You descend from above like a turkey vulture. Your smooth hands soothe my brow according to your programming. You change my bedpan or my diapers depending on how continent I’m feeling. We can put a man on the moon and create artificial intelligence, but somehow bedpan technology is still from the 1800s.
The skin they’ve given you is softer than a human’s. Though really, it’s an exoskeleton, protecting your central processing core and your AI interface, harder than diamond.
“I want soup,” I say. “Bring me soup.”
You go to the dispenser and make it dispense soup, all without a sound, interacting with it via wireless transmission, if that’s what they still call it. I am old enough that I still find this miraculous, and consequently resent you f
