Hospice is for the dying, I’m not dying
my mom told the nurse.
From beneath a silken bronze head scarf,
glowing cheeks seemed to agree.
Her mind clear despite the morphine
seeking out, subduing her greatest fear,
we talked about everything, except It.
Still protecting me.
Raising her hands, studying slim fingers,
in the softest voice, My nails need trimming.
Coffee eyes poured into mine—I promised
to bring her nail kit the next day,
the morning I slipped out
and she slipped away…
Two years later,
bracing to visit my dying friend,
mom’s concern echoed,
her eyes paralyzing.
Back and forth I struggled, finally
shoving the kit into my pocket.
We no sooner settled when my friend
stretched out her arms,
that same look,
My nails are just awful, aren’t they?
