ON MY last day, it rains. 

Bitter, biting; soaking my shepherd’s-hook grip, tumbling down the shining crook of me. I am garishly pink, neon-flashing. LOOK AT ME! 

Today is my last. She swore it so, up and down: 

‘Done. After today, I am done.’ 

Dust will settle in my bullet-spray pores, the indents of damage. Mementos of each fall we’ve taken, each loss of balance, each uncoordinated foot swiped beneath me. Of course I am pink—I am hers, after all—yet white speckles me like a smattering of acne. We were pretty, once. When I was a concept in a hospital room, pitched by pediatric nurses with overstretched gum-smiles. Pink. Her favorite. How fun. I was an amorphous thing, a shade to pick out, the prerequisite to the discharge papers. She was convinced I’d be a short-term fix, a band-aid. Now, my craters speak to how many months it has been. Now, my pink is obnoxious. Now, my novelty has long worn. 

Today is my last. She means it this time. 

She picks me up off the slippery ground, tucks the awkward length of me beneath her arm like a screaming toddler in the grocery store. Hush. Walking with me is loud: I clop and I echo. My dull clatter invites stares; my scratch-puckered face twists in a tantrum. 

One step without me. Two, three, four-five-six. She’s fine. Sidewalk. Pebbling, grating sidewalk. Her legs work. She’s fine. 

Today is my last day, and it is raining.

I cannot be sent back because of my damage, and will as such retire to the garage. Today, I will retire to the garage. Or tomorrow. 

The parking lot yawns with too many teeth—too many cars, too many parking spots. People halt when they see me, scramble like sports players: left, right, left, right. They dodge me, eyes wide, muttering apologies to me. Not to her. They run to hold doors. “I’m looking for the neurology building? Suite two hundred and—” 

“My advice is to get back in your car, drive to the other side…” 

This repeats. 

Three times, this repeats. 

By the time she’s found the building, she grips me with both hands. I creak with the weight, whine like a kicked stray. 

“And your mobility,” says the doctor, who’s had to steady her during his exam—grasp her at the shoulders, harness her at the waist—three times. “Time. It’ll take time.”

Today is not my last day. It’s still raining.