He sits there with his dirty hands
And rocks and rocks, and squeaks and squeaks
He has gone vacant
You can’t trust anything he says about his day
You know he doesn’t have a clue what happened.
When he gets up you’ll see
the whitish marks his hands left on the chair
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He sits there with his gnarled hands
still full of all the memories of having worked
still capable beneath the wrinkled skin
They tap against the chair arm keeping time
to some remembered song
Or to the band he marched in once
so many years ago
He rocks and rocks, remembering
The times he won, the times
He proved himself to be uniquely clever
The times when he was master
The times when he was kind
He plays them back, for they affirm him
Repetitious pleasure signals
Looping through his mind
When he gets up to eat the food that I’ve prepared
He’s always grateful: for the food, but more
He’s grateful for the time we share
Companionable repast nurturing
His sense of being wanted, and belonging
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No facts that I observe can stand alone
I’ll always bind them up in explanation
Then let my story here
be one I’m glad to own
that holds my thought in nurturing relation.
©Wendy Mulhern
May 21, 2012
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