She Was Who She Is

Aline, mother of friend, Barry,
died this morning in her sleep.
2:30 A.M.
He cared for her at his place
fed her, bathed her, stayed
close to the house
watched the Alzheimers grow meaner
watched her gather the small
paper bag of personals
and sit by the door
waiting to go home.
I'm Barry, he'd say, your son.
You are home, he would say.

She'd smile sweetly
and turn to her room.
Those last days
He bought her a hospital bed
to help with the pain
even when softly he lifted her
to hold off the bed sores,
a woman, who,
in eighty some years of life
was likely the first to rise.

He laughed with her
as he bathed her in the tub
splashed water and made her giggle
taking care to gentle all the private parts
just as she had done for him and her boys
when they were little guys.
At the end, surrendered,
she squeezed his hand
and thanked him.

She had nursed her husband, Fred,
through the dark days of his early death
and now had no one left to take care of.
Not even her ownself.

(c)Robert E. Young                    2008

from The Poet's Domain, Vol 24

Live Wire Press, Charlottesville, VA