The Nursing Home Her daughters visit every Friday for one thousand-minute hour . . . they hold her hand and stroke her cheek and call her Dear and join her for a cookie and a glass of orange juice wiping away the sticky trickle running down her chin They tell her she looks pretty in her new pink sweater and they've arranged to get her hair done and a shampoo every Wednesday then hopefully, they name the children . . . all of them send love to Grandma she listens with blank eyes Who are they? she asks are they friends of mine? They check their watches, Oh, my goodness see the time . . . we really have to go They take her hands and her bony fingers clench theirs fiercely with uncanny strength clutching frantically her only lifeline to the world outside Can I go home with you? She asks please take me home . . . they look away maybe next time, they say as they unclasp her fingers and walk away without a backward glance pretending not to hear her calling as they leave the room . . . they close the door and tiptoe down the hall and then allow the tears. ~~Daphne Wilson (C)1996 |
From The Chapbook Daph's Collection Of Poetry & Rhymes. |
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Your comments are much appreciated ~Daphne |
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This page was last updated on: 28/1/02
