In the old-folks home I changed
bed sheets for this white lady.
She was real old, but she liked me
anyway. She’d tell 'bout the days
she was young and the things she’d done.
Said she wrote for a paper back
when most reporters were men.
When she was ready to sleep,
she’d reach up to hold my face—
her hands would always shake—
she’d pull me down to kiss my cheek.
One night she said to me something
like “You know what little girl? I’m going
to die this week.” Well, I didn’t know
what to say, felt like a fool standing there
smiling at her, too young to imagine
anyone could plan for such a thing.
Can’t usually tell with black people
till their breath comes fast and shallow.
But old white folks turn blue before
they die, like their tired blood stops
flowing along with their will
to be the last of their kind.
It starts at their toes—
got about two weeks to live
with blue toes. As the color flows
up their feet they’ve got a week,
maybe less. When it’s to their knees
that’s the day they’ll pass away.
Next day when I got to her room she was
lying down—I’d never seen her do that
in daylight. She hadn’t even pulled the covers
back. Then I guess she didn’t see the need
to muss up the bed. She was all dressed up
except that she wasn’t wearing shoes.
She didn’t speak. That was different,
she always spoke before. This time
she just smiled as I came close
enough to see her feet were blue.
(c)Allen M. Weber 2010
published in 2010 Fall issue of
the Naugatuck River Review
No comments:
Post a Comment