Unrelated

Memories of Mrs. Hoff

“Another
Gone,”
the nurse sighs and shrugs.
“They’ll come for the body
while you are on.
Tell them it’s ready, in
the patient’s bed.” Nodding,
I swallow- she
waves me away.
I walk
down white hallways,
doors distinguished by numbers
and slide-in names – masking
what cannot be
categorized. Something
sucks me under,
like water’s grip over
a ship gone down.
Three names still cling to the door
ignorant of any loss,
but the middle
bed hides behind maroon shields –
deflectors against
the invasion
of life. I’m grateful the other
beds stand empty, their
partners escaping
the shadows trapped, for they would
see my weakness. Someone
whispers, “Ignore
it,” but it is not me. I hang,
only breathing,
as my mind sinks into the room.
Months ago, I had stood
Right here like a skittish
Deer, paranoid at every
Tremble of my hands
and she tilted back
her head, smiled,
patted my hand.
Months of struggling,
finding the balance
of routine, learning
each face, wrinkle,
temper, when
to duck, when to nod
in silent acceptance-
she was there, each day
sitting in that bland
hallway, grinning-
I had to smile,
as laughing gossip
warned me of another’s
mood- light through
trees of frowns and tears,
guide my path.
I know I was here just
yesterday, to
help her dress, brush
out soft silver hair,
bring dinner.
She smiled and told me jokes,
stories – laughter
never left her
pale sky eyes, as I wrapped my arms
around her scrawny- fragile form
and put her to bed.
A year ago, I had
yet to hear her named, and
could claim no relation,
or know someone
who can, so I have no
right to cry now,
her voice haunting . . . but
yesterday I held her
hand, and we were
laughing.