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Joan

By Marie Davids

You sat in your wheelchair too weak
to care about lifeís swirl today.
Ennui or malaise donít quite describe
what I see in your face, your eyes.
When I speak you raise your hand
in a gesture that says
Sorry, too tired to listen.
 
Finally
We help you to bed,
undress and comfort you with a cool water bath
then a slow massage, your feet, your legs,
Eric Satie music playing while we watch
old home movies of
you and Jack, 50 years ago
running on the beach,
laughing and clowning with your kids.
I look at that young couple,
slim, vibrant, full of joy and grace, then
back to you as you lose consciousness
and call out to that young man.
There you are, holding his hand,
here you are, reaching out for it again
across time and space.
 
August 31, 2013
The day Joan died




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