vitalwholeness

It’s not always clear where she might be
in her room, the dining room
or playing games in the activity room

Maybe she is taking her walker for a stroll
a breath of air, then back under
to the work of living or more

When I come we always sit
in the living room with the fireplace
because, I suppose, it feels like home

And at the end of stories, reassurance
that it isn’t so bad after all
I excuse myself and bring our time to a close

Standing, I move toward the steel door
of this institution, this place
with nurses and sign-in sheets

And she, leaving her walker behind
as an unrehearsed ritual
moves to the door to see her guest out

There are the farewells, well wishing
waving goodbye, the one last glance
before shutting the door behind her

If she could, she would turn off the porch light
adjust the thermostat, check tomorrow’s calendar
and look into the children’s room one last time

This door has seen her grace before
a thousand, a million times
It still does