Hope


It’s too cold and windy 
to sit outside
so I wait for my husband
in the atrium 
at the cancer center.
He is at the day hospital
receiving his own blood.
From my chair, I see
clouds blanketing trees
on the distant hillside.
I’m alone reading my book,
when two men wheel a white 
upright piano out 
from the elevator
placing it against the wall.
Almost dozing off,
I’m startled by someone
playing the piano.
Music echoes 
in the cold room,
warming the sterile hallway.
I recognize
the Feather Theme 
from Forrest Gump, 
listen to tinkling of keys,
the lively crescendo
stirs my spirit.
I rise from my chair to return
to my husband resting
in the clinic, then I smile
recalling the movie’s end.
The white feather floating,
floating in the air,
then landing near his feet.





His Way


In the picture, 
his graying hair blows
from the spring wind
as he stands atop
our house,
nailing roof shingles.
His wide smile reveals
that he’s proud to assist
his young son-in-law
in this manual task.
While the family warns,
“You shouldn’t 
be up there.”

Now, three years later,
he shuffles his feet
on the way to the car 
after a serious
hospital stay, 
second in one month.
Today he’s on his way
to Costco.
“Don’t worry,” he says.
“Someone will help me
carry the groceries 
to my car.”
When he gets home,
he has to rest up 
in his recliner.
Then his cell phone’s 
alarm goes off.
He struggles
to get out of the chair
because it’s 2:30;
time to pick up his grandson,
Jordan, from school.





Cherish


Ray, I want to say:
Let’s turn off the TV
and listen 
to The Platters.
Let it take us back
to that first night
when we wanted
to stay in the car 
forever.

But you’ve let go
of those memories.
The chemo keeps 
you cold
even when
all of us feel warm.
The walker
holds you back 
from your life.
I want to listen
one more time 
to those love songs
and be twenty again.
So I turn on iTunes
and pretend
we’re dancing,
while you remain
in the recliner
hugged by 
the crocheted cover.





Aubade for Ray


It’s a celebration when I invite
you back to our bed
because you look well enough
to escape from the hospital one.
A relief to know I do not have
to pull the sides up and hear
the lock click to protect you
from falling out.

Instead, I awake with my body
feeling strange and my pulse racing.
I know I have to head for the hospital.
I quickly wake you from a deep sleep
and help you into the wheelchair.
I need you to watch our young
grandsons so they won’t be all alone.

The next day I’m happy the meds  
worked and my pulse is normal.
I’m anxious to go home.
Our whole family arrives
at my hospital bed,.
And before I can realize
there’s something wrong,
our daughter says,
“Dad died this morning.”
                    




Naked


I watch leaves fall from trees.
Soon their lonely branches
look like they need a cover
to get them through cold winter.
Yet, they must endure until
green leaves return in spring.

After the loss of a loved one,
I’m aware that the seconds, minutes,
and hours of my life grace the ground
too quickly like falling leaves.
I’m naked in need of warmth, waiting
with hope for the first buds of spring.