She is 98 going on 50
and I am changing her back
into her clothes for discharge home.
We chat about remembering
not to take too many of her new pills
without talking to the doctor,
as she rests a hand upon my forearm,
her touch light and feathery
with fragile, thin skin.
I look into her eyes to find
the edges reddening, brim with sad tears
on the brink of spilling.
She tells me she doesn’t understand
why sickness has found her family
so late in her life.
She grips me now with tiny fingers,
speaking of her son curled
in a bed from stroke,
how he had never hurt anyone in his life
to deserve such an end,
such a fate.
There is nothing I can say
so I start to cry, place my hand
upon her brittle, gray hair
sliding it down until is rests
on her cheek to catch the tear
that got away.
Aleathia Drehmer 2007
Published by Words Dance 10/08 (Issue 12)
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