Dank smell of stale sheets in the dusty room. Blinds drawn against the sun. Her
cold hands clasp the beads of a rosary. “Would you make me a sandwich?”
she asks. But when you bring it, she pushes it away. “Don’t you know
I’m too sick to eat?”
You wonder if this is the way you will remember her.
Once, she stroked your hair
Painted giraffes and monkeys
On your bedroom walls
Stood you on a chair
So you could help her bake bread
In her yeast scented kitchen
Now the water glass trembles in her shaky hand. You reach to steady it.
“Don’t treat me like a child,” she snaps. “I can do it
myself.”
lives in the Canadian province of New Brunswick where she has been working in the
public education system for twenty years. She has a palindrome poem forthcoming in
the Summer/Fall 2015 issue of Carousel magazine.
