Wasatch Care Center

Wasatch Care Center


My first day,
they tell me death
gathers in threes.
When one goes
two more are at the door.
Snow melts, one lady sits
beside the window
staring at the birds,
silver tipped brown
sparrows too quick
for time to touch,
as they return.
Ceaseless pecking
at the feeder still edged with ice.
Wood peels beyond
repair, hidden in a
narrow alley of weeds
trapped against a rusted
link fence
She startles and gets mad
when I appear, as if I hunt her,
watching for the chance
to steal away what she clutches-
curling over an old green pen.
I wonder of the treasure-
how she took it from Mr. Benson’s
meticulous room.
“Stay away, it’s mine.”
I used to think
memory smeared for all
time worn but I know
now that it can go both ways;
he senses the shift of his chair,
his matted photos or his pens
bundled neatly in the mug
his granddaughter coiled for him,
while she can shed yesterday
like old snake skin - marked
by the lightest touch
on silk thin skin;
torn like a wet,
cheap, paper towel.
My hands draw back-
She curses, but I won’t flinch
this time.
“I hope you die,” she hisses.
Familiar air cuts in my throat
I reach again out, pale fingers
trying to find a grip
on green plastic.
She tries to slap
my hand away
but can’t see past
angry tears.
Why can’t she remember,
just once . . .
or him forget?